


A Tale of Prosperity

by Thequeenofmedicority



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Angst, F/F, F/M, Harry Has a Twin, M/M, Multi, Romance, alternative universe, belated warning: not all mentioned ships will be endgame, can contain gore, toture, warning:alcohol and drugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thequeenofmedicority/pseuds/Thequeenofmedicority
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lily buries herself in work until she won't<br/>James is always on his toes until he can't<br/>Gabriel never misses a step until he does<br/>Harry suffers from negliance until he doesn't<br/>And Mira is soft until she isn't</p><p>This is a story set in an alternative universe where Harry Potter has a twin brother and his family survived. However, a complete Potter family isn't equivalent to peace. The small family battles darkness from every corner, and within themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Change is upon us

By the time she lays wide-awake around an hour, the beams of sun piercing through the window becomes difficult to avoid. Mira assumes they are the reason behind her growing irk, since she snuggles into the warmth she created overnight, in her velvety and purple bed, instead of waking up as soon as she noticed the blood in her thin layer of eyelid. She groans aloud, pushing her heavy head into the pillow, and smells the faint odor of vanilla shampoo and stains of dried sweat. Oh sweet baby Merlin, isn’t the summer just charming? With the way, it makes her leak bodily fluid, even when she sleeps with the window agape and an impossibly flimsy blanket, with her legs sprawling atop of it. There is a fine reason, on why she is a spring person, although she is born in the wet, cold and dark times of short little February.

Swinging her heated feet over to plant on the fuzzy carpet underneath her, that sent waves of unpleasant warmth through her, she averts her bleary eyes onto the calendar on the wall. Blinking severally, the unclear blur smearing her eyeballs disappears, enough to show her the numbers, which sends a drag of excitement in her lower stomach.

01st September 1995.

The excitement leaves as quickly as it comes.

It is highly bizarre, sitting there blankly at the foot of the bed, Mira suddenly feels like the summer has gone by fast, although she couldn’t wait for it to be over just yesterday. It’s as her guts wrenches and pushes her anxiety soaked thoughts to predict the return to Hogwarts, and everything that comes with being a third year, does the lap on her door flap upward and a ball of orange fur rolls in with a flat face and drowsy amber eyes. She smiles cutesy at the old family cat, before picking up him up and presses her unwashed face into his soft little neck – or lack thereof.

Snitch has been with them: since before her birth. Bought by Lily Potter to James as pre-training on how to take care of well, living and needy souls. Anything not broom related wasn’t her father’s strongest caring field back then, when they first realized that they’re awaiting her brothers. You know, it is quite popular for inexperienced to learn their parenting ways on pets before they move on to children. Anyways, 16 years later and Snitch isn’t a kitten anymore, but still as lazy as ever.

“Did you come to wake me up?” she coos, fingers buries into his electrified fur, “Don’t want me to miss the train, no?”

The slow blinking of Snitch is all that meets her, he rarely ever respond what-so-ever to her otherwise, completely healthy session of love.  
She laughs at her own silliness, can’t blame her for secretly being a dog-person, when her godfather Sirius always played with her in his animagus form, after all. This time she looks up more cautious, when the door goes up, and she sinks onto her bed with a frosty feeling exuding in her chest. The intruder is one pointy-eared house elf – the head elf that takes cares of the other fifteen. Iffy lingers by the door in her black garments and Mira averts her gaze down to the nuzzling cat, as she is sure they’re mirroring the growing disappointment she feels on the inside.

“Iffy apologizes for disturbing, Miss,” she peeps dutifully, “but Iffy was asked to wake Miss Mirabelle up.”

She shakes her head, “Not doing anything important anyways, I’ll be down in fifteen.”

She hears Iffy retreat, and with a grip on Snitch’s fur, causing him to wheeze in protest, Mira calls loudly, “I haven’t finished packing though, so mum might not be as keen for me to join them.”

Turning around, Iffy smiles somewhat sheepishly, “Mistress knew, Iffy was asked to do the rest for Miss Mirabelle’s, before gone to Hogwarts.”

Mira lets a downhearted sigh out, after Iffy retreats, and allows the growling cat to bounce off of her bare thighs, before she rises unenthused to set her morning rituals into motion. Her hand finds the radio on her way to the bathroom, and behind her the tiring silence fills with the soothing intro of Vibes Twins’ best track, whose recent tour she has finally been to a mere week ago.

The only highlight of this bloody, stall summer.

She hums along to _Sweep my wand_ , the lyrics flooding into her ears with streams of tiny black notes, as Mira steps under the cascading shower, and frees her copper red hair out of its tangled braids.

¤¤

“Good morning,” Mira greets lowly, upon stepping into the dining room, eyes glued to the messy table.

Her mother’s working papers for the Wizengamot catering on the table, engraved in bold letters with **Lily Potter** unnecessarily written on every page. Her mother who is always bend tiredly over them, with a disarray of auburn strands atop of her head, is nowhere to be seen. Instead, her brothers occupies the table with their plates and evidently cautious of not spilling on any of her work. Taking a plate from the stock on the counter, Mira is at least glad her mother didn’t tell them to eat elsewhere; apparently, some of her old self is still there, deep inside this copy of her sent from the ministry.

Harry and Gabriel looks up at her arrival with identically befuddled expressions, muttering small greets back and returns to discuss whatever stood on the newspapers this morning. They are twins, with Gabriel Potter as the firstborn, and it is easier just saying, that they used to look much more alike when they were younger, but even then, it was never as Fred and George. Gabriel is sturdy and tall, while Harry is lanky, and about two inch shorter. Gabriel is tan and is among a pretty close circle of friends, while Harry is sort of a socializer, never seen hanging out with the same twice. Gabriel’s eyes are hickory brown like their father, while Harry got their father’s tousled black locks and eyes bottle green like their mother. No one has any idea who Gabriel gets his coffee brown hair from; then again, no family member of theirs has mossy brown eyes like she.

It has always been easy telling them apart, not to mention the all-time separating fact that Gabriel is Gryffindor, while Harry not so surprisingly became a Ravenclaw. However, his recent complete disregard to every single responsibility in his life, really made her set a few questions mark about the whole sorting ceremony thing.

Her thoughts slips away, when the smell of throughout English breakfast streams thickly and warm in her nose, fogging her mind and rightly, so, she helps herself with something from every dish.

“Where is mum,” she asks, by the time she joins the table.

“Talking to Mrs. Weasley over the floo,” Gabriel informs, as he disgustingly tears of the French bread with his bared teeth. “Shad id was somethin’ important.”

Wrinkling her nose, she starts cutting her sausages and for a while, chews deep in thoughts, as they go back to their conversation on some front page story, at last her curiosity wins again.

“Is dad going to be here?”

With utmost exasperation in his eyes, Gabriel replies testily, “Yes, he is going to set his mission on standby to come pet you on the head, why are you insisting on asking such stupid questions?”

“Stupid?” she inquires bitingly.

Gabriel is about to retort, probably something that’ll bug her for the rest of the day, but their mother chooses the moment to walk toward them, still yelling the end of the conversation over her shoulder. They stop, for some reason with bated breaths, as she walks in still in her bathrobes and hair as messy as it was the whole summer, but with a blinding smile breaking her sagged face.

“Ready to go back to Hogwarts?” she asks chirpy, pouring herself a mug of coffee and takes a seat in front of the papers. She waits on their half-hearted answers, before continuing, “The plan was for Mrs. Weasley to take you to the station –“

Mira chortles somber, “Whatever happened to parents sending their kids off?”

“– but due to some problems, I’ll have to do it anyway.” She continues unbothered to the boys, who shrugs as if it did not matter either way.

She drops the fork from her grasp, suddenly losing all appetite. It has been like that the entire summer, actually, it has been like that ever since her mother hosted that stupid dinner party back over the Christmas break, where she invited all those ministry bigots, who they all had to help convince that her mother was as good as any other to join the Wizengamot. She doesn’t even understand the sudden interest in the corrupt high court, her previous job was much better.

“What about dad,” she retorts, “Is he busy enough to call?”

Harry settles his inspecting eyes on her, watching her mutely with furrowed brows; he barely touches his breakfast either. From the other end of the table, Gabriel rolls his eyes but he does not say anything for once. Behind him, the long, rectangular windows reflecting their wide backyard, the clear sun high on the sky lightening up the grass, and she suddenly feels a pang of nostalgia.

Their father is not home, have not been in two weeks, since the ministry sent him away on some secret mission, because their last fourteen year of peace have been threatened and for once, it’s actually not you know who, or so Dumbledore says.  
Her mother’s gaze is back on her work, and she nods to confirm her words, grip tight on her mug. An infuriating mumble under her breath, Mira excuses herself from the table and returns to climb the stairs back to the comfort of her room.

¤¤

“Remember to always do your work in good time, don’t be unnecessarily cruel, write as often as you can, ” her mother reminds her strictly, “And for Merlin’s sake, do ask Remus for anything. He’d even happily help you prepare a schedule!”

The tone didn’t cause the desired effect, since her soft features and sweet smile wears of the sternness. Mira is not far behind, nodding and keeping her own smile at the bare minimum. She wraps her once again in a smoldering hug, and Mira melts into it, cheek against the soft fabric of her cloak, despite how it triggered slight panic and loss of breath in her chest. Perhaps, she will miss her a lot, even if she begrudgingly told herself not to.

Looking over her mother’s shoulders, her gaze settles on the corner where Sirius is standing out from the crowd in his gloomy Auror uniform, speaking with Harry and Gabriel, as Remus is by him, affectionately beaming at his husband.

They’re still tangled in the moment, her mother whispering sweet nothings into her ear and causing her hair to frizz unattractively, when the first whistle from the engineer shortly dulls their hearing, clearly informing them that there was less than ten minutes back. On clockwork – every year, Mira sighs inwardly – the wall is barged through, and one after another, redheads hurl themselves into the platform.

Clad in their muggle attire, Fred and George runs with their luggage carriage across the platform, causing a racket by rushing between the bonding families, and they nearly topple an old woman over. Ron is behind them, growing more into his huge hands and feet after each summer, and he waves to Gabriel before walking up to the Longbottom, where Alice is sending off her boys, Neville and Sandon. Then lastly, the Weasley women, who walks over to them, Mrs. Weasley plumb and excited, as she grabs Mira to pull her into a bone-crushing hug, and then proceeds to Lily, who jovially meets her half-way.

“Good morning, Mirabelle.” Ginevra says politely.

“Morning, Ginevra.”

She is quite tall. Towering over Mira with more than a head and trillions of freckles covering every inch of her exposed skin, giving off the impression that her skin is brown from afar. She is wearing a white tank tucking into her high waisted shorts, and feet in blue trainers, like a proper muggle really, with her light auburn hair in a braid and, well, pretty. Ginevra and she didn’t use to be the best of friends as youngies – actually they hated each other – despite spending a huge amount of time together, being the only girls in the Potter-Longbottom-Weasley get togethers. However, somewhere through the time they wandered through Hogwarts, their childhood pettiness toward one another faded, leaving a slightly uneasy relationship based on pure civility. Or something.

They stand in front of each other, smiling and silent, until their mothers walk toward Alice and Mrs. Granger lingering by the still engineer. Ginevra instantly goes to greet Lucy Addams, who stands a couple of feet away, typically flirting with a handsomely tousled bloke. Addams, another tall and pretty Gryffindor, with thick black hair and an extrovert personality.

Mira parts away too, but not bothering to find any of her own mates, she gallops over to where nearly all the males in her family stands, guffawing at whatever Gabriel is elastically retelling, and overall acting like impatient apes.

Sirius grins welcoming, and swings an arm around her, as he turns her toward the others. “Right the one I was looking for,” he states, perking her up remarkably. “I’ve got something for you!”

He reaches beamingly down in his pocket, while she follows his every movement closely, as he takes his time to excruciate her. At last Sirius unfolds his hands animatedly and there before them all, on each hand, is a piece of square shaped glass, reflecting the old, snappy ceiling of the platform. She freezes, as it dawns on her a little belated, vaguely noticing her brothers bulging eyes and dropping jaws, and in respond her heart picks up a pace, as it slowly sink in.

“The two-way mirrors.” She breaths elevated.

“The two-way mirrors,” he repeats with a grin, his grey eyes so similar to the London weather glistering back to her, “I’ve decided, since you’re finally in third year and all, that it’s your turn to inherit a marauder heirloom.”

She nods dumbfounded, only sure she heard a broken part of his words, and reaches forward to grab the mirrors in her tunnel view. They’re light and cool against her palms, like regular mirrors, but yet so much more. She used to love listening to their stories involving these, actually, she preferred their boyhood shenanigans to any old school fairy tales, and even if she isn’t a self-proclaimed pranker like Gabriel – putting aside the sheer stupidity of that – they are surely more than useful. For example, they make it easier to cheat in exams.

Mira looks up, barely able to realize the gutted expression on Gabriel face, let alone has time to act overly giddy over it. Instead, she leans into Sirius both armed, broad embrace and thanks him. A part of her starts to regret accusing Sirius for being sexist over the Christmas holidays, when he said that he would not pass any objects of their childhood over to a girl. Between the cloak to Gabriel and map to Harry, she had honestly given up on ever getting anything.  
“You just made my entire summer.” She beams, causing the adults to erupt into surprised barks of laughter, and really, this moment is absolutely precious to her. Apart from the realization that Sirius had played her, this is like she is finally being recognized for being a marauder’s daughter.

¤¤

The bright sun high lightens literally every dust on the corridors, and Harry is bored enough to notice every last fuzz of greyish skunk in his path. He notices it more than the students around him, as he walks down the middle part of the train, looking inside one compartment at the time, enduring the snickers and ridicule of the boldest, and waiting on the vexation from Ron’s earlier blows at the prefect meeting to wear off. Harry sighs, after closing yet another door full of loudly chattering, sneakily mocking, but otherwise well-behaved students. He has mostly been indifferent about disturbing them, until he runs into Neville that is. The word awkward does not sum it up well enough, as the blonde boy splutters, face crimson in the matter of nanoseconds, while Dean and Seamus hotly glares at him, until he closes the door.

Escorting the train is pointless, and a waste of his time, though he admittedly would’ve had much more fun, if Padma hadn’t ditched him to go to Merlin-knows-where to collect the ‘juicy’ gossip over the summer. Harry sulkily caries on – ignoring the ashen faces of second years hectically freezing up the wall at his sight – He had a lot of gossip to offer, but did Padma ask him? No.

He is also a formidable co-prefect, that she can bet her fucking wand on.

“I didn’t even ask for this,” he complains, as he closes the door on some Hufflepuff and Gryffindor boys bend over a trembling mouse. He couldn’t get himself to care, just waving them off, as they struggled to explain their actions.

Sure once, Harry used to dare to dream, of him stepping into his mother’s footsteps and becoming a prefect, later on the shining example as Head boy. Nevertheless, none ofthis have been played with since at least mid-second year. Quite frankly, the badge had come out of the blue.

Familiar laughter halts him, and suspiciously he peaks through the clear window on the door, only to spot his sister playfully slapping a curly haired Hufflepuff, that is Terry Boot’s sister, as a nameless blonde snickers with the love potion enthusiastic Romilda Vane.  
He continues down the corridor, presuming his thoughts and cursing Flitwick for wasting his time like this. No matter what the crispy moustached, bald goblin said on the letter, this post is more of a punishment than privilege. Heck, Harry was so sure that after what he pulled last year, he wouldn’t even be considered! Yet here he is, a badge clinging onto his blue blazer, being a nausea to an otherwise calm population of peers.

A sudden boisterous concussion makes him scratch his earlier words, and Harry spins around agitated, watching numbly, as the compartment door forcibly flies off its hinges and a heap of raggedly limps strikes against the wall. A few doors behind him creaks open, and heads peaks out curiously timid, and that jolts the life back to Harry’s veins. He hurries over to the anguishing Gabriel, who is attempting to sit up. Harry kneels down to grab his arms, and quickly helps his hunched back lean against the wall.

“What the fuck, Gabriel?” he inquires puzzled.

A hoarse cry horns in, and Harry lurches away, when Ron shoots out next and collides against Gabriel, both toppling vigorously onto the ground. Hurried steps rounding the corner causes Harry to wipe almost desperately to the newcomers, only to witness Granger freeze, her eyes just as dilated and frostily astounded as his, and wand ready in hand,when sixth year Montague strides menacingly out of the compartment, his teeth bared and shaking with utmost gloomy ominous.

“Montague, you need to –“Granger starts reprimanding, and he cuts her portentously by shooting the stunning spell at her, which she instantly deflects by summoning a shield. “Montague!”

“You don’t own this sodding world!” Montague bellows, gripping Gabriel by the collar and hauls him to his feet. “If you try to curse me in sleep again, you pathetic little coward, I am going to –“

He never gets to finish that sentence nor connect his fist with Gabriel’s jaw, in that moment Harry seizes his wand and with cold determination, he speedily hurls a well-aimed spell after another, with Montague instantly deflecting, the other hand still holding a choking grip on Gabriel. It only last so long, and after shattering his shield into abundant pieces with avifors, Harry hastily follows with ascendio, which hits him vaingloriously across the chest, and he is rapidly hoist to the ceiling, dangling and cursing in vain, while both his wand and Gabriel dropping to the ground.

Granger beats him to the punch, and instantly collects Gabriel into her arms, while scolding both of them for their ludicrous shenanigan, as Gabriel chuckles raucous, and Ron rubs circles into his sore head, when he turns brazenly to Harry, suddenly remembering their savior.

“What are you doing here? This corridor doesn’t cover your patrolling routine.” Ron remarks, his own prefect badge shining crudely back at him, and he causes the other two to notice him, and although Gabriel smiles thankfully, Granger scowls alienating.

Harry directs his palms at him, before wielding around, a simple ‘thank you’ would’ve sufficed, but Harry doesn’t have Granger chewing his head off high on his list of desires, nor any troubles. Sighing – the only thing that rationalized his thoughts – Harry opens the closest door, greeted by his own classmates.  
The circle of girls smile up at him, and his eyes instantly attaches to their minor changes over the summer. Lavender’s breasts grew bigger, Yolanda Moon looks healthier than ever and he greets her back, while Su Lin is on the ground with a bottle, her arm muscles even more defined, and at last there is Parvati who cut her hair to shoulder length, which further separates her from Padma – who is sitting right there with them.  
Crossing his arms over his chest, he watches her squirm under his unimpressed gaze, as she smiles sheepishly back. She raises a manicured hand, waving gently to his direction.

“Hi Harry.”

“You’ll join me in five.” He simply states, and lets the door close behind him.

He feels pretty cool-headed, although the unfairness clearly illustrates in how much his feet are aching under his steps. Maybe, he will let her pay for it, whether she’ll have to win back his love with expensive presents, or he could ditch her on a dark night to escort the hollow halls of the castle all on her own. A thunderous night would be perfect, actually.

A sudden pressure against his bladder makes him turn away from creeping at the compartments. Impatiently jerking his blazer of, Harry uses his damned position to cut through the abnormally long line to the loo.

“Hey!” one of the protesting boys exclaims, soaring forward to grab his elbow, the only reason, why Harry turns around to acknowledge the short and squinty eyed Ravenclaw. It wouldn’t take much to topple him over, if need came by.

“You can’t just – “ the boy starts, spluttering in rage.

“Kindly fuck off.”

Jerking his arm away, Harry continues forward, smiling to himself at their weak insults. He hitches up the door, ready to demand for the occupier to run along, but instead halts at the sight of the vulgar scene, that sents half of those behind him running away, others whistling. It all depends on character; Harry clears his throat authoritatively, as the tangled head of rich blonde turns around.

A tangled head of rich blonde belonging to one Daphne Greengrass.

He arches a brow, watching the almost unrecognizable beauty in front of him. The silent and modest Daphne, who mostly kept to herself, has lost remarkable amount of weight, and is currently sitting on the sink, exposing her long smooth legs, skirting down her blouse to cover her creamy torso, lips bruised and face as red as berries. He should feel sorry for her, but again, it’s the prize to pay, if you get off by snogging in the least private public place. The door isn’t even locked.

Harry knocks twice on the door, until her mate seems to snap out of his haze, and slips out underneath her skirt. He catches Harry’s eyes, stands up to run a hand, over his close sitting bush of umber colored hair. Eyes are unruffled, and smirk on set, which is such typical antics of Blaise Zabini. While some are good at Quidditch and memorizing entire curriculums, Blaise’s gift in life is, not being able to feel embarrassed. He is the epitome of live with no regrets.

“Well, hello Harry.” He greets, taking his shirt on with no humbleness, “I guess this piece of nasty display will serve me detention? Beginning Monday, I assume, Mr. Prefect.”

Harry fights against the smile, threatening to appear on his schooled features. Clasping his hands behind his back, he shakes his head, quite to the annoyance of the audience of perverts, still behind them and commenting, like they are preforming in some R-rated play.

“Actually, you’re the first disturbance to the peace,” Harry says, ignoring Blaise’s doubtful eyes, “I’ll let you off the hook this time.”

“Thank you, oh kind prefect.” Blaise mocks, bowing for him with praying hands.

"I couldn’t do it,” Harry says, eyes falling on the silent Daphne, “Not to her clean record.”

She narrows her eyes, “I don’t need your pity, Potter!”

“But you have it.”

Daphne storms pass them, baring her teeth at Blaise, when he sexualizes her anger. As soon as she’s gone, the short boy makes a beeline to the toilet, pushing Blaise onto Harry. The other run forward, knocking on the door, and overall causing a racket over a fucking line. Guess it is a slow day for news, he thinks, directing his attention back to the dark skinned bloke in front of him.

“What?” he grins.

“Taking my sloppy seconds, I see.” Harry replies, starting to turn his back onto what clearly is his job to fix. Blaise repeats spluttering in incredulousness, picking up to fall with his pace. Harry gives a slight nod to Padma, who turns the corridor with wide-eyes and she continues more distressed to fend off the tall Ravenclaw holding a smaller boy by the throat.

“You took her because you were both dateless, at the Christmas Dance!” Blaise retorts, as if his words had been an insult to him, “You didn’t even kiss the girl!”

Harry shrugs, peaking into compartments until he finds a spacious, empty one with curtain. He opens the door, the wrinkly clothed boy still carrying on indignantly, and with a roll of his eyes, he shoves him inside. Perhaps, a throughout detail for detail will pepper his mood up again.

¤¤

She fights her way up the stairwell, almost completely knocked flat against the old, brick walls around them. Girls in all ages are causing such a tight traffic, that she almost sobs, upon finally reaching her dorm. Mira straightens up, the soothingly forest green color washing into her sight, three four-poster beds are lined on each side of the door, with a black drawer at the side and luggage by the foot. It is otherwise completely empty, and she sighs deeply, enjoying the few minutes of complete calm she’ll have this term, until the other girls comes.

Mira is a Slytherin, yes she was shocked to the bone when the hat announced it vociferous, since the only reason she replied to the hats’ question in the first place was in hope of being perceived as smart or wise, and she really, really wanted to end up in Ravenclaw with Harry. Sometimes, she still wants to be a Ravenclaw more than constantly judged from the outside and her motives questioned inside the goddamn house. The most mindboggling part were how her parents seemed unperturbed, as if they saw it coming to some degree all along. Made her dejectedly regret not daring to write back to them the first week, but again, she had to deal with Harry and Gabriel scrutinizing her from every angle, to note any ‘changes’ – though the latter had been much, much more overbearing. He still has his moments of overreaction.

Mira stares a little longer into the familiar yet new room and how bare the walls are, the vapid bathroom on the opposite end, how tragic it is that they move a dorm down, as they grow older, instead of staying in the same room and that she still has to climb so many stairs. Behind her on the stairwell, girls are reuniting and causing such deafening sounds. She kind of missed the screams; it reminds her a lot of Astoria Greengrass.

A knock comes to the door, pulling her out of her thoughts, as she half turns to see a tall redheaded fifth year, smiling sweetly at her, which is exceptionally odd. Narrowing her eyes only causes the girl’s smile to widen.

“Is there any problems?” Tracey Davis inquires.

“What implied I needed help?” Mira asks audacious.  
A moment goes by, as a fuming Parkinson races up toward the noisy second years at the top, wand readily grasped in hand, matching the rage Mira feels. This girl does not even recognize her face. It is not like there are many students in Hogwarts, in the first place, let alone Slytherin third year girls. It’s after Mira indiscreetly rolls her eyes that Davis suddenly raises a hand to cover abruptly over her bubblegum pink lips, and at once the realization dawns on her brown eyes.

“My apology Potter, I thought you’re the new girl.” She then proceeds to blink awkwardly for a moment, and carefully asks, “You do know, that your dorm has been expanded, right?”

She turns back to the dorm, gaze landing on the sixth bed. She had noticed it, yes, Mira is neither blind nor incapable of counting. She just simply put it out of her thoughts, until she meets her in flesh. Dulling the mild curiosity, she nods and promises to make the transfer comfortable.

“And I am sorry for mistaking you for Miss Marlowe,” she apologizes once more.

Mira has never been more eager to close a door, her ear pricks up momentarily at the name, before she offers her an incredibly forceful smile.  
“It’s okay; I don’t remember your name either.”

“It’s Tracey Davis,” she replies immediately, and Mira shakes her hand shortly, if she’s offended she doesn’t let it pass her sweet smile, “now I won’t take more of your time, see you at the feast.”

She instantly pushes the door closed, before setting off to claim a bed, pausing shortly upon hearing a chorus of screams from upstairs, and Parkinson’s banshee like curses ringing above them all.

After finding the softest bed and closest to the bathroom – which means she really only have two to choose between – Mira decides to fill up her drawers, and it is in the middle of this action, that the door goes up softly. She looks up to see a plump, familiar witch with light curls stepping in.

“Paige,” Mira greets.

Her wary expression softens, and she takes a seat by the opposite bed. She looks fresh, tanned even, possessing admirable thick curls, and bright eyes, as she drones on about her vacation to the Caribbean, emptying her prepaid talking time for the rest of the year. Paige was possibly the most comfortable person in the house for Mira, when they started Hogwarts two years ago. Quite like herself, she is a halfblood and the first to enter Slytherin in her family – although she isn’t as vocal on either part – and it made her somewhat relatable, as they say minorities has a way of sticking together. However, bubbly and blunt she can be, it’s entirely reserved when she is aware of captivating the attention of merely over three people – even if it’s just the other girls in the dorm. Mira half-listens to this girl she isn’t really close with anymore, color coordinating her socks in the meantime, while she still has all the time in the world for silly details.

“Enough about me,” Paige breathlessly giggles, tucking her pudgy legs underneath her. “Tell me about yours! Which country did you travel to this year?”

A grim smile slacks her face, as the thought of the summer swims into her mind, raising a prickling sensation. Summer is now equal to avocadoes, tight spaces and Hearst. She despises them all. “Not this summer,” It doesn't come out as causal as she intends, and if she goes by the look on Paige’s face, it is a case of growling.

“Why not?”

“Busy parents.”

“Yes, but – “

She really didn’t want to go deeper into this, but she couldn’t yell it into Paige’s face either, so like an angel sent from the heavens, Nina carries her towering, tawny skinned self into the room. A Puerto Rican of royal connection, and often scoffed away for her ‘prude’ ways, but according to Mira it’s a cleverly cautious girl, with a tad of cynism. However, her oozing confidence isn’t to be misinterpreted, she often falls into droning paths of complaining over her dull eyes or uneven skin.

“Good summer, Paige?” she asks, smiling with her many teeth, before turning to Mira with disappointment, “And you! Where did you go off to? I swear one moment you’re hugging your godfathers, the next no compartment residence had seen you!”

“You probably just checked the three nearest compartments,” Mira says, rolling her eyes, “I were in the back with some Gryffindors and Allison.”

Mira finishes the last of her clothes. For someone required to wear uniform 85% of the time, she took an awful lot of regular clothes with her.

“Of course, you traitorous bint!”

Pushing her up, Nina embraces a laughing Mira, before falling back onto the beds. It tugs on her stomach, as soon as the concern pierces through Nina’s dark brown eyes, the smile wiping off her.

“I heard your father was sent away.” Nina says all mirth and bash empty in her voice, “A lot of aurors are, I know, but I couldn’t see past your dad’s name. Are you okay?”

It warms her that she cared, although she normally hears minimal words from most of them over the summer. She nods at her hands instead, and they are silent for a little while, the sounds too dimming down out in the stairwell, which means the last are going to the feast by now.

“You missed a lot, though,” Nina breaks the silence, taking a seat beside Paige, and somehow with a pack of nuts in her hands. “Malfoy pulled out this fire whiskey, and arranged a drinking game, which ended with Crabbe throwing up all over Leslie Flint, elder Montague went berserk on _that_ Weasley, you know, Ron and your brother Gabriel too, and Harry caught Zabini and Daphne Greengrass doing,” she uneasily motions with her hands, “and she’s become really pretty!”

“No way.” Paige shakes her head skeptically, “You’re lying!”

“Yes way! She is so slim now.” Nina exclaims, then swiftly turns somber, “However, Madison Reynolds is just skin and bones now, she is truly about to bite the dust. The fourth years are getting a little too skanky lately, Lucy Addams told me our fourth year Dionne Lester acted a little too cheaply over the summer. Oh, and apparently, we’re going to have a transfer student from Beauxbatons Academy – that French elite school. I heard she was kicked out.”

“Bet it was just her family moving,” Mira rolls her eyes.

She refrain from commenting on how it isn’t an elite school and quite frankly, if she got a knut for each time some poor soul got tainted from stupid rumors in this place, she’d have money enough to fulfill the needs of twelve generations. Mira prefers shaming people with the actual, evident truth, but she doesn’t have much to worry about with Nina, since most of her news comes straight from the source. Nonetheless, her mood is remarkably lifted, as she listens to the two girls in front of her.

“That explains the extra bed.” Paige states.

They look over instantly toward the bed beside Nina and Paige, the mattress sinking by the weight from the tasteless pink luggage with stickers of equally tasteless bands. Whomever it is needs to seriously change their taste, Mira thinks, while Nina rips at the red-faced blonde, teasing her for not putting two and two together quicker. Paige needs to change too, Mira thinks this time less distasteful, as the girl splutters at the slightest mass scrutiny. She is lucky to be a Slytherin, or else Snape would have torn her apart, and fed her to the thestrals by the end of their first month.

“I-I had thought it was Astoria’s,” she stammers, “She always wanted a double bed.”

A second ticks by, and it sent them flying down to the ground, trembling from shrieking in laughter, that have them bend over in stitches. The door barged open then, hitting against the wall and it sober them up, as the self-proclaimed queen skips in with a literal glinting tiara tugging on her delightful ebony cornrows.

“Hi,” she greets Nina with a playful shove and ignores Paige, before embracing the mirth-stricken Mira, and nuzzles her cold nose into her ear, before asking in a sugary voice: “Missed me?”

“‘Course.” Mira replies grinning.

“Well doesn’t explain why you barely wrote.” she retorts mock offended, before taking a seat on the bed beside Mira, legs crossing and head tilting challengingly.  
“It takes two to carry a conversation, Danessa; you could’ve written too you know?”

“I could’ve. Anyways, I for one, had a splendid summer in Italy, my parents were mostly M.I.A, but I got together with a boy, an Italian boy actually. Honestly, it was wonderful, like taken out of a Fifi Lafolle romance novel! Did I mention he was like, fifteen or something?”

“Fifteen?” Paige repeats awed.

“Or something?” Nina repeats critically.

“I am gorgeous, so is it surprising?” Danessa says, shrugging her braids away.

It is true, Mira finds herself nodding, she is truly a sight to behold. She isn’t regularly pretty, the word otherworldly is much more fitting, and she only seems to grow in grace. Danessa has blokes dazed at the very first glance, and girls evaporating with sheer jealousy. Her melanin skin glows contented, clear and very smooth underneath the touch. Eyes are ample, warm and mischievous, carrying the color of dark mocha, yet a hue of sheer intimidation latches on her being. Depends on which end of the stick you’re on. She is like a Nubian queen, minus all the gold and stuck in Slytherin’s uniform. Quite reckless for the stereotypical slytherin, but her intelligence in hand with talent only makes her all the more alluring. It’s a given though, born to an alchemist father, who was Nicolas Flames’ very last apprentice, and a highly influenced politician for a mother.

“Seen Astoria?” Mira asks a while later.

All the girls spread on the floor, sharing the best moment of their respective summers, while lazily flipping through magazines, going on to what they look forward to, and somehow, as the sun keeps sinking down and the feast starts without them, they end up talking shit about everyone.

“Not since she ditched me, to hang off of the new bird.” Danessa mutters, legs swinging in the air, “Have you seen the girl? She’s such a snob, to be honest.”

“Wore quite the jewelry for someone going to school,” Nina agrees, eyes on the ceiling, “Made me want to set a niffler on her, just for the blast.”

“What’s her name?” Mira smiles, rubbing Paige’s back after she starts violently coughing, as a follow up on her constant snickering.

“Meredith, something, something.” Danessa replies, “Didn’t catch her full name, her drawling puts my arse to sleep. She’s another Florence Hearst.”

“Or Malfoy.” Mira adds.

They begin cackling, continuing to make fun of the small impression Danessa got on the new girl and it is in this moment, that the door goes up again, shutting them all up at once. Astoria walks in, surveying the room, and upon seeing them sprawling on the floor, she sets off an ear splitting scream that alerts them to rise on their feet, as she jumps to embrace them. Astoria finally took a hint and let her chestnut brown hair grow past her earlobes, Mira notices, enveloping around the petite, silkily clad pureblood, who wears a little too much lipstick and eye makeup, and most importantly, the very first girlfriend of hers. She didn’t use to be the most pleasant person, and though not as snobby and have grown out of her unnecessary need to humiliate one, Astoria still isn’t the most pleasant person, it’s just forgettable due to it not being directing at Mira anymore.

“Ladies, this is Meredith Angeletta Marlowe!” she introduces, and they follow her cutesy gesticulation toward the door.

First then do they notice the girl lingering by the entrance, and a culpable feeling penetrates through Mira’s chest at the possibility of the girl overhearing them. Her gaze finds Danessa’s, who pulls a short grimace, before turning back to the new girl. Paige laughs again, when Astoria leads Meredith Marlowe over to her.  
“Paige Derrick, she laughs whenever she is uneasy.” Astoria says, before directing them away from the disheartened Paige, by their linked arms.

The first thing Mira notices beside the sizable golden earrings is how short she is, around Astoria’s height, which says a lot because the girl is constantly teased for being a head lower than her peers, and two below Nina, who hunches down to shake her hand, a mocking glance exchanged with Danessa.  
“The Nina Silva,” Astoria tells Marlowe somberly, “Don’t mess with her, she will put your wand up where you cannot reach it.”

Marlowe nods, the smile stretching over her chubby face, which is framed by long layers of golden blonde locks and centered by a pair of blue doe eyes. She looks like a doll. An actual vintage doll, Mira gawks, as Meredith smiles with her blood red lips, greeting the same people who hopefully unbeknownst to her just badmouthed her.  
“This is Danessa Shafiq, who is deluded enough to think, she is the queen here.”

“Only someone who is threatened would assure newbies,” Danessa states eloquently, “I on the other hand, will show you.”

“’Show it, don’t tell it’,” Marlowe cites pompously, “Dashing, well I look forward to it.”

“And Mirabelle Potter,” Astoria introduces her last; “She can be quite grumpy in – well, all the time actually.”

She manages to duck away from Mira’s smack, but they both stop up as a sound erupts lightly. Meredith laughs, a ringing sound of church bells, and sticks out her hand, even her eyes are smiling, and Mira has always hated that expression, because of its unlikeliness. Well, until now that is, Mira muses, and returns her handshake.

“So this is my bedfellows, who would rather –“ Marlowe pauses, as her eyes flicks to the head pillows encircled around witch weekly and Wrock magazines, “ – hang, than watch my sorting.”

“I almost forgot!” Astoria exclaims, “It’s sort of a tradition, since the Great Hall is just upstairs, Slytherins usually slip into their dorms and pick beds, and adjust to their new dorms, before going back to the ceremony. It takes a lot of time with everyone settling, and then the wait on the first years.” Astoria spares them a doting glance, “I guess these twits forgot to return.”

“Right, how’d that work anyways?” Mira inquires, “I mean your sorting, how come everyone knew you’re a slytherin, before the ceremony?”

Marlowe hums impressed, “Perceptive, that mind of yours. I was actually sorted on Friday in headmaster Dumbledore’s office, but I chose to be sorted with the first years too. That way I’d properly introduce myself to the school.” Marlowe explains beamingly.

Mira represses her snickers, when Nina watches her flabbergast and Danessa rolls her eyes at the sheer ancillary of her antics. Meredith wields around, asking Astoria where her bed are, continuing in her drawling overly posh voice, with traces of French thickness in it.

“Over here.” She answers helpfully.

 She would’ve never helped anyone to this degree, she always complains about lifting the smallest finger in any relation, whether it’s charity or dependable on her future. Yet here she is, giving her the middle one opposite Danessa, and assures her that she’ll be there in the morning to show her around, despite the fact, that she always sleeps in on the weekends.

“Thank you,” Meredith expresses her gratitude, before gathering her toilet bag, and excusing herself to the bathroom. Actually apologizing for her hygienic routines.

By the time the falling water reaches them, Astoria turns around toward Paige and shoves her off the bed. She lands in a heap upon the floor, grunting and protesting that she claimed the bed. “You should know better by now,” she retorts, pulling her luggage over to the bed opposite Mira. “I always have one of the two closest to the bathroom.”

Maybe, she hasn’t changed that much, but it still makes her wonder perfidiously at night, gripping onto her sheets to pull it closer, while the even sound of breathing fills the dark room.

Her entire expectations for this school year has just become a lot more complicated.


	2. A river between two mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel's concerns for his father keeps growing, meanwhile Mira gloats over her new dorm mate's ignorance.

Monday comes by faster, than anyone expects it to, least of all Gabriel.

He jolts up at the reminder of school, which pierces through his otherwise erotic and wonderful dreams about a certain sixth year. Throwing the cover away, he springs out of his bed and decides to wake the rest of the boys up, vaguely realizing that the sun is shining alarmingly high on the sky.

He stops up abruptly and blinks once, as his eyes flicks from one empty bed to the other, emptiness all that meets him. Neville seems to have forgotten him. A disbelieving chortle escapes his lips, before he rushes to seize his uniform on top of the drawer and runs further to the bathroom, hoping he could at least have time to grab a bite of breakfast, before his charms class. Otherwise, endure the detention for skipping on the first day. He lets out a quick farewell to the few lounging seventh year in the common room, speeding toward the open portrait hole, when stumbling noises from the boy’s stairwell halts him, and surprisingly – even though it really shouldn’t be – a raggedly dressed, drowsy looking raven comes into his view. Harry scowls at the shrieking whistles from Fred and George, and avoids the swinging hand from Lee Jordan aiming at his bum, before slipping through the portrait hole. With a deep sigh, Gabriel goes after him. At least, he wouldn’t be the only one arriving late.

“I thought you didn’t do Gryffindors.” Gabriel asks, hurrying up to catch up with Harry, who is desperately trying to make himself look at least a little presentable.

“So did I,” he grumps, before sighing to himself, “It’s the last time I go out on a fucking Sunday.”

Especially the day before the beginning of their O.W.L.S year, Gabriel adds mentally. Actually, if he still had any sort of say in it, Harry shouldn’t go out at all, but he wisely refrains from doing so, as Harry continues on a worrying lane.

“On a brighter note though, I cannot remember a single thing from last night.” Harry smirks, as if this is a good thing, “The only telling part is that I woke up next to some sixth year bloke.”

“Didn’t you at least get his name?” he frowns.

“Nope,” Harry replies, popping the p. “He is a clingy sod though, asked me to eat breakfast with him and all.”

“Yeah because that’s fucking futile.” He retorts sarcastically.

“You know what _is_ fucking futile? That you threw the cascading jinx on Montague at the feast.”

“So?”

“So your aiming is shit! You should be thankful you hit the pudding, instead of someone’s head, and that Mira wasn’t on that table.”

“It’s not a big deal, Filch has gone senile, and instantly blamed Peeves, despite knowing the prick isn’t capable of entering the Great Hall.” Gabriel dismisses smirking.

“Filch hasn’t gone senile, I confunded him for you.”

He doesn’t know how to feel about Harry rescuing his arse twice. Gabriel tries dumbfounded to defend himself, Ron had knocked his hand and he was actually aiming for the torches to cascade on Yatin Bhagat, who hit on Cho Chang, but Harry wouldn’t have any of it. They reach the first floor fairly fast, having taken the secret stairwell through fifth floor, and as they round the corner, Gabriel asks him – fully knowing the outcome – that he could quickly figure the identity of the nameless boy. There were only seven sixth year boys in his house after all, but Harry shakes his head and they fall silent. Before them the open doors of a populated Great Hall meets their view. 

“Um, how’s Granger… after yesterday’s duel?” Harry asks, barely audible.

Gabriel looks over with narrow eyes, as Harry insists on not meeting his gaze, shoulders tense and question inappropriate. Why the fuck did he care, again?

“Good.” He replies coldly, mouth twitching at Harry’s flinch, and he stalks forward parting away from him down to Gryffindors table.

“Good morning,” Ginny greets, as soon as he joins, and he replies to her, about the same time all his guilt-stricken dorm mates exclaim joviality.

He gets time to grab more than a bite, and not long after his stomach becomes fuller, he warms up to the boys for not waking him, laughing along with Ron when he joins them later, though Hermione is rather silent this morning, bent over the ever depressing newspapers. A quarter after he arrives, they all scatter away to classes.

¤¤

“Mr. Longbottom?” Flitwick calls out, his crispy moustache moving like swings, with his head bowed over, calling out the names from the protocol.

“Yes, sir.”

“Miss. Moon?”

“Present, professor.”

“I am happy to see you healthy.” He says genuinely, beaming down to the ashen blonde girl, who expresses her gratitude. Gabriel turns to roll his eyes toward Ron, who snickers crudely.

“Patil twins?”

“Yes, sir.” “Here, sir.” They say on the same time.

“Gabriel Potter?”

“Yes, professor.” He raises his hand, and so Flitwick continues.

By the time he ends with Ron, Flitwick turns around on his stack of books to the blackboard behind him, about to go through a short summary of this year, when Harry raises his hand and tells Flitwick that he forgot him.

All the heads turn to the table on first row, pressing against the wall with windows, his hands clasped on the table, and hair well groomed. The professor looks noticeably surprised, and he picks up the papers crossing Harry’s name with slight coolness afterwards.

“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Potter.” He says, before continuing the class.

An obvious cold shoulder is directed to Harry throughout the hour, from the otherwise chirpiest professor on the teachers’ staff, who efficiently hands Gabriel two points for putting Charm behind Banishing. The first day back to school consists of a sufficient amount of O.W.L.S pep talk, than actual wizardry, and the only teacher than seems to reflect the students is Remus – or professor Lupin during school hours – who allows them to pick groups, ending with Gabriel and Ron amusingly cursing and counter-jinxing Neville. Since Hagrid scarcely feinted the consequences of burning Hogwarts down last year, after Malfoy sat his blast-ended screwts during the night in sheer vengeance, Hagrid has learned to become more introspective with his creatures, making Care of Magical creatures somewhat intact, or inside the frames of safety set by the ministry. Potions is the usual snooze fest, with a persistent boring drawl carrying in the frosty and horrid classroom. Gabriel heroically hands them all a favor, when he discreetly casting the Toe Biter jinx on Goyle, causing the overly stout bloke to lurch, throwing the table over, and Malfoy’s shriek of surprises transits to a piercing wail, when the shrinking solution flood all over him. Despite Snape’s acrimonious threats, he doesn’t catch Gabriel, although he still murders him with his flinching black orbs.

It’s while going down to lunch, after fighting plants in Herbology, that only gets deathlier as they grow older, that Hermione finally says what he awaited all day. She starts to walk brisker, and her blood reaches its boiling point.

“What’s his business?” she exclaims, “How can he come to classes and back into our lives, expecting us to treat him the same way?”

Well, technically Harry didn’t do that.

“I know.” Ron agrees, nodding angrily, “He didn’t even show up to Charms exams last year! How can he still be in the class? Moreover, why the fuck is he not expelled?”

“And – even worse, they made him a prefect!” Hermione hisses, momentarily hesitant and yet beyond aggravation, “What kind of example are they setting for the younger students?”

Gabriel sighs, he knew they’d take this path sooner than later, it was just about time, since the shining badge fell out of Harry’s envelope. It had surprised them all to be honest.

“You cannot forget everything he did, before last year either.” Gabriel interrupts her rant, “His future shouldn’t be ruined, because of one bad year; he was top student up to third year.”

“Top student my arse.” Ron chuckles somberly, “He drank himself to staggers, daily!”

“Ditched every class the entire May, broke like fifty school rules in one week, overflowed the library, turned up high in his transfiguration exam and not to mention his bootlegging with that lousy Nicholas Cross!” Hermione counts with her fingers, eyes flinching with utmost rage.

Gabriel notices how she does not mention two incidents, one of which causes her the most enmity. He does not bring it up either – not having a death wish and all – instead he averts by supposing which dishes they’ll get at lunch, a conversation Ron is instantly set on running to its full discourse, and Hermione begrudgingly lets the topic drop. It is very difficult to protect someone, who has made it this hard for himself to become likable, Gabriel thinks, while describing the taste of the pork chops dancing on his tongue. At least he learned something new today; it is most definitely not Flitwick, who made Harry a prefect.

¤¤

“Run five laps more.” Angelina orders sharply, causing pathetic groans from the handful of heavily breathing rag dolls, some people will mistake for humans.

They have been training without breaks for the past two hours, not even two drops of water to damp on their heated skins, and Gabriel’s throat is dry as sandpaper, yet burning like its swallowed hell itself. Ron is beside him, lying on the side and struggling to force air into his lungs, eyes closing harder, when Angelina bumps her boot into them, and orders them to stand up. Perhaps Ron is regretting taking Oliver’s post; Gabriel certainly regrets ever complaining about Oliver’s training. At least he participated; he didn’t hover over them on his broom, telling them to continue like they’re fucking robots – these mechanical muggle things, for your information.

Gabriel supports himself on his shaky arms, sitting up and squinting his eyes at her, before the bleariness clears. Not a single sweat glowing on her mahogany dark skin.

“Have some mercy!” Fred whines, wiggling around and entangles further with the listless Alicia, who has two, sturdy redheads sandwiching her from each side.

Angelina is about to answer, her mouth gaping up in preparation for a bellow or something, when a blur of red catches their attention from up the hill from Hogwarts, sprinting toward them. Upon moving closer, Gabriel realizes it is Lavender, her honey blonde hair flowing in the air, and clad in a bright red summer dress. It is mother Theresa herself, he decides, noticing the basket of fruit and water in her arms. The ebbing life returns in their veins, and the entire group runs pass Angelina with newfound energy, munching and drenching their thirsts immediately from Lavender’s embrace.

“Thank you, Brown.” Katie says breathy and hugs her, “You’re a true lifesaver!”

“Yeah,” Gabriel agrees, and Ron nods vigorously beside him. He never finished a bottle of water in five seconds before.

“I guess it’s enough for today.” Angelina sighs defeated, mounting her broom over one shoulder, the other supporting Alicia, who blabbers her gratitude dizzily.

Katie leaves too, after repeatedly voicing how grateful she is, and soon Ron, Lavender and he, are the only one back. They seat themselves on the bleachers, as she fixes sweets up from her bra, and despite its strangeness, he doesn’t question it, conversation jumping subjects like ping-pong, as the weather cools down around them. It has been rather warm, despite being in September.

The first week goes by in a pleasantly slow tempo, and Gabriel continues to be on top and prepared, writing down notes in every subject, juggling perfectly with all his responsibilities. Until the 10th September, when assignments and projects hits him from all directions, knocking him off his feet. It bring anything else but a wrenching feeling in his guts, until he at last just drops it all and goes to throw an entire case of dung bombs from the highest moving staircase. Gabriel grins complacent, watching it shatter upon hitting the floor, causing screams and trepidation, the putrid odor latching on the tapestry and ends with Filch evacuating the entire floor for five hours. It’s Wednesday evening, after he receives a Poor mark on his fucking Charms assignment, that Gabriel realizes how much he actually procrastinates.  

The higher power seems to be on his side after all, and he smiles upon entering the library and spots Harry right away, bent over some Arithmancy books in the main study area, which are populated with fifth years alike. Waving briefly back to Parvati and Terry Boot, he takes a seat beside Harry, who looks up with an exasperated sigh. He really needed to work on his acting skills.

“What do you want?”

“The map.” He replies.

If Harry doesn’t want to beat around the bushes to win them some brotherhood quality time, then it’s his loss really.

He frowns irate, but hands him the yellow parchments nonetheless. His attempt to small talk did not succeed again, since Harry shoos him away the first chance he gets. Reaching the dullest section in the library, Gabriel leans up the bookshelves and folds out the map, the tip of his dark wooded wand hovering over its cracked lines.

“I solemnly swear, that I am up to no good.” He whispers, and the black ink spreads around, forming into a detailed map over Hogwarts grounds and its population. He vaguely sees that Malfoy and his two goons are now with Harry – without getting the cold treatment. His eyes wanders over the map’s many black dots, Neville is helping in the glasshouses, he ignores the queasiness over the fact that Lucy Addams and Hopkins are snogging awfully close to him, Dean and Seamus seems to be back in their dorm, and Hermione is hard to spot at the moment. To his immense surprise, Ron is out on the pitch. With furrowed brows, he taps twice on his name, before the words _Self-practicing_ appears underneath it. Okay, how is he supposed to muster energy up to write an essay, when he doesn’t have a study partner? Biting his teeth together, Gabriel goes back to Harry and prays that some work ethics will rub off on him.

¤¤

“Okay, but I still don’t understand what its purpose is.” Gabriel groans in frustration, the top of the quill already bitten apart his target for relief.

They aren’t exactly his favorable study partners either, Gabriel grumps, when both their gazes sets on him with utter exasperation and in Malfoy’s case, disgust. Harry reaches out to go through Gabriel’s potion book with barely any patience, before shoving the very first page into his face.

Gabriel draws back, he too a little short in his temper, before snatching the book out of his hands and reading the page. In many unnecessarily complicated ways, the book informs him that the draught of sleep’s effect is to relieve anxiety and agitation in the patient, but that doesn’t really explain why it’s used to drug one into sleep. When he voices it, Malfoy snaps at him.

“Because, you simpleminded kobold, when a person is overdosed with a potion, meant for relaxation, you commonly fall asleep!” he sneers, eyes dilated and livid.

Gabriel feels a burning warmth spread underneath his collar, but he refuses to be the punching bag, who Malfoy takes his frustration out on, just because he cannot find neither head nor tail in his stupid Arithmancy presentation.

“Thank you pseudo Snape, for your unsought input!” Gabriel snaps right back.

“If you had listened to professor Snape, you wouldn’t find the need to ask.”

“How can I?” Gabriel hisses, face crimson with anger, “When Snape has a personal vendetta against me? I can’t even cut a fucking spider leg, without him nagging over how I hold the knife!”

“How about starting with actually listening in class, instead of talking to Brown, who we both know is way out of your league?” Malfoy smirks, leaning back on his seat.

Gabriel springs out of his seat, but Harry instantly pushes him back down, eyes settling on a place pass them both. They all glance over, to see a tight lipped Madame Pince two feet away, who has already returned from throwing Crabbe and Goyle out for discreetly eating greasy leftovers over her books. She holds her withering glare on them, as she taps her right foot severely. They get a sharp, nasal warning before she briskly walks away toward the handful of giggling Hufflepuff third years, looking through a magazine with clear amusement.

“Can’t you two go elsewhere with your discussion?” Harry murmurs, tiredly rubbing his bleary eyes, and Gabriel packs his books with a nod, leaving the table after returning him his map. Of course, Harry doesn’t know shit about loyalty.

¤¤

It’s at breakfast the next day, when the windows flicks open and a stream of neutral coloured owls flies in with letters and papers, and in result the conversations falls a few octaves lower. An amber-eyed owl lands in front of his breakfast plate, with the latest edition of the Daily Prophet tightly trapped around its thin, wrinkled leg.  

Pushing the bowl of nuts under her peak, Gabriel looks away from his last minute essay to look at the front page of a distraught looking Minister Fudge underneath the title.

**EVERYTHING IS UNDER MINISTRY CONTROL**

Fudge never had a good poker face, why expect him to have it in such down spiralling times. Gabriel shakes his head, going through the paper and as usually, finds next to minimal information about the _everything_ that clearly isn’t in control.

“Anything new?” Hermione asks.

He shrugs, handing her the papers.

Moments goes by, while Hermione’s head bend over the papers, the few paying attention waiting expectantly, before she lays it down with a drained sigh. She perfectly captures his feeling, with her face turned up to the ceiling, eyes closed and jaw set.

“Well?” Ron asks, captivated enough to lay his fork down. “Noticed anything of importance?”

 “It’s two dozen pages of reassurance and damage control.” Hermione replies cynically.

“Is the daily prophet ever not like that?” Dean mutters under his breath and Gabriel’s mouth twitch a little upward, despite the annoyance he feels over them keeping the public in the dark.

“Maintaining imaginary peace is the ministry’s top priority after all.” Gabriel says, sounding very much like his father at the breakfast table.

Gabriel has a right to know more than the public, this isn’t a farfetched possibility, where he has to imagine a scenario where it comes to affect him and his family. It does concerns his father, it’s James’ reality at the moment, he is send away by the ministry to solve their imbroglio shambles. However, no amount of stressing that will ever make the minister shatter the illusion.

“Maybe there is nothing wrong.” Seamus tries unconvincingly. Incredulous snorts are released around the mousey Irishman, “Ever reckon they do have a plan in motion?”

“That doesn’t explain why my dad hasn’t written back,” Gabriel argues irritated, “if you ask me, the situation have only gotten worse.”

They fall silent, slowly returning back to the food in front of them, before it becomes cold. His appetite is gone though, his vision consisting of the letters his mother sent him, about how many of the Aurors are sent on missions, as if it isn’t enough that he barely was there during the summer. Gabriel isn’t sure what is going on, only that ex-death eaters are stirring trouble, even if no sign of Voldemort was spotted, since half-way through first year, when Sirius accidently knocked the turban off of a panicky professor Quirrell’s head. It had been a horrendous experience, and Voldemort had flown away immediately. Never seen again.

¤¤

Upon opening the door into her dorm, shouting meets her and she contemplates whether to turn around. She had hoped there would at least go a full month before they began fighting. It’s nothing out of the ordinary life in this dorm though, the normalcy apparent in how unbothered Nina is, reading Witch Weekly on her bed, while Paige is changing the colour on her nails with her wand, bobbing her head along to the radio, which is undoubtedly set up to drown them. Mira walks up to her bed and changes into a plain blue tee and black trousers, dressing down to meet up with Sandon Longbottom, as the yelling reaches impossibly high octaves, until it’s nothing but inaudible shrieks.

“Aren’t Astoria supposed to be at the frog choir rehearsals?” Mira inquires exasperated.

“You know Danessa isn’t going to let her go, before she has either slapped her silly or burned her belongings.” Nina replies, lazily flicking through the beauty pages.

Mira stops in the middle of tying her sneakers’ shoelaces, her eyes settling on the wide-eyed blonde across from her, clasping her hands on her lap, and timidly watching the closed bathroom door muddling the screeching insults. It’s odd that Mira doesn’t notice her until now, since she hasn’t managed to turn off her vocal cord from the minute she stepped back out of the bathroom. Marlowe’s newfound silence gladdens her to new highs though, seemingly the new girl doesn’t know as much about these chaps, as she pretended to for the last three weeks.

She turns her attention back to Nina.

“Did you hear that Lucy Addams wants to lose her virginity?” Mira asks loudly.

Nina jerks up lively, while Paige lays down her wand and breaths out a curse that scrunches Marlowe’s face into the expression of a child that tastes lemons for the first time.

“No way! Who told you?” Paige inquires shaking her head whilst doing so.

“Overheard her in the lavatory, you should’ve seen the crowd she gathered around her, apparently she thinks she can get a fifth year.”

Paige and Mira exchange a glance, before throwing their heads back in laughter, and after counting the boys they know of the head, they are unable to name a boy up the social ladder that’ll take a silly, fourth year like her. Nina doesn’t find it funny though.

“She can.” Nina argues fiery, something in the intensity behind her brown eyes gets them to shut up. She settles back against her pillow and a hand comes to swiftly turn the page on her magazine, before adding, “She’s pretty.”

The yelling stops any further conversation, the sound of objects shattering on the toilet floor filling the silence, and Danessa seems to decide on burning Astoria’s belongings. She flings every insult underneath the sky at Astoria, who yells for Danessa to stop being a fucking drama queen. Nevertheless, what else are new about those two? They have been going at it since the start, like two alphas fighting to be the dominating queen of the dorm.

“A knut for your thoughts?” Mira asks the still blonde in faux-concern. Upon Marlowe’s gaze settling on her, the girl nods, her ringlets bouncing up and down in the motion.

“Just shocked over the pettiness of the fight.” Marlowe says lowly.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Mira notices how Nina stops reading the articles on fickle fame, her feet moving impatiently. Marlowe looks like this truly bothers her, which Mira cannot help but find amusing, however wrong that might be perceived. Leaning forward eagerly, hands cupping her cheeks, she questions her further in the same levelled and warm tone.

“How come?”

“They’re fighting, because Astoria used Danessa’s shampoo without permission.” Marlowe notes.

“Yeah,” Mira shrugs, “It costs a fortune and she bought it in Italy.”

“But in Beauxbatons, the bedfellows shares everything.” Marlowe argues, genuinely bothered, “We did each other’s hair, recommended beauty products, and was like sisters.”

“This isn’t Beauxbatons.” Nina mutters under her breath.

“And sisters fight.” Mira adds bemused. “Aren’t you an only child, by the way?”

 She looks so small and offended from where she is sitting cross-legged on her bed, her hands rubbing each other in front of her flabby stomach, as the rushing blood paints her creamy skin. Both their head snap over to Paige, who is desperately trying to stifle a laughter, and Nina stops motioning her hands. Mira isn’t the least wrong in assuming they are ridiculing Beauxbatons.

“I still think it’s petty.” Marlowe says with a finality, before shutting her curtains and disappearing behind them.

“Boy, she took that hard.” Nina notes.

With one last eye roll, Mira leaves the room, ignoring the ever intensifying screams.

¤¤

The night sky is the darkest of ebony, and the halls of Hogwarts hollow and gloomy, perfect place to cast a Horror Movie. A teacher and Hufflepuff prefects are patrolling the floors, but easily avoidable with a magical map, a cloak granting invisibility and a pair of communication mirrors. Gabriel gets his hands on all three of them tonight, sneaking around fourth floor with the map in his hands, masked by the disillusionment charm and wand out. He quickly ducks behind a suit of armour, as the voices of Ernie MacMillan and Hannah Abbott reaches his ears, seeming to be obnoxiously arguing over, why Ernie does not just ask Susan Bones out already.

Interesting, Gabriel thinks, pressing himself further against the wall and holding his breath, while the two hufflepuffs pass him, without a hint of suspicion. He takes out the map again, waits until their names goes up to fifth floor and professor Sinister is safely on first, when he slips out again and hurries into the boys’ loo. Taking out the mirror, by the time he is bend over the sinks, he calls out Ron’s name.

“Yes?” the freckled redhead appears on the mirror, seemingly too inside some loo.

“Everything under control?” Gabriel asks.

Ron nods, before his face brightens up in smug glee.

“Oi, and before I forget, I almost ran into Eloise Midgen and Montague coming down from the astronomy tower - moments after each other.”

“I figured out that Ernie likes Susan.”

“I win.”

Gabriel grins, “Amazing what secrets reveals itself at night, yes?”

Ron smirks and throws a farewell, before hoisting the invisibility cloak over his head and the mirror turns blank again. Putting it back into his pocket, Gabriel examines the shrinks to make sure they’re working and jinxes them with a shot of sickly green sparks one after another, scheduling it to go off precisely when classes ends tomorrow, in honour of the Quidditch season starting next week. One last double check, Gabriel leaps out to get back to his dorm, barely keeping the anticipation out enough to sleep.

As the bells rings for the last time and each classroom door slams open, a line of chattering students filling the floors of the school, every single floor’s loo gives out a loud wheezing sound, halting everyone in curiosity. It is all it takes, a split second of a hesitation, before the doors jerks upon with millions of fist sized cockroaches flying over their heads, thickly streaming underneath the ceiling and on the ground the aghast masses of petrified students are instantly flooded with dirty slime, cementing them to everything they’re in contact with.

Stretching extravagantly in their chairs, Gabriel and Ron chuckles shamelessly at the distress, while Professor Lupin leaps out of the classroom with an unearthly curse gritted through his teeth and tries fruitlessly to stop the chaos amidst the students jerking themselves further into the slime, imitating headless chickens. Hermione leans on the teacher’s desk with a sigh, pulling out her wand, yet remembering no counter curse to aid with. They are going to be dealing with her later, but right now, they have other thoughts in their mind. Gabriel turns to face Ron, who raises a fist that pounds against his own.

“Happy beginning of the Quidditch Season,” Ron says grinning, “May the favours be on our side this year.”

“Amen.” Gabriel retorts.


	3. Bumpy Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every time we take a step forward, we go back to the same primitive behaviour.  
>  \- Colin Quinn

He shudders at the warmth, as it glides inside him and his walls presses in tightly of pleasure, the warmth almost unbearable. Harry gives out a huff, breath staggering, his hands desperately gripping onto the faint yellow sheets underneath him, and he shifts his weight, teeth biting harder into his bottom lip to stop the moan from tearing out of his throat, just as Blaise smiles against his cheeks, stretching out to reach further. Harry ignores his dripping cock, instead he forces his shaky hand from the sheets and trails it over Blaise’s dampen chest, while he strokes Harry’s pelvis.

They carry on like that, for a while more, Harry closes his eyes, the feeling of pleasure washing over him, like the waves hitting a shore, while Blaise works his tongue hungrily.

He is called back to earth, by the muffled sounds Blaise mutters between his cheeks, and panting heavily Harry rock against his face, while Blaise weakly kicks his legs out, obviously desperate to come. He continues to mumble inaudibly against his hole, and with a sigh, Harry agrees to see what the time it is. Reaching forward, coldness suddenly fanning his wet cheeks when they lift from Blaise’s recline face, Harry quickly parts the green curtains to peak at the clock standing on the drawer.

“Its 09 am,” Harry notes roughly to Blaise, who gives out a pathetically breathy beg to come, and Harry returns, wholly impressed by how he managed to hold for two hours. Harry came at least three times during the eating out, unashamedly though it feels wonderful.

He lies pliant on his back, his cock pulsing and purple lying in a pole of pre cum against his stomach, and face creasing into something cross between complete exhaustion and on the verge of sobbing his heart out. With a slight chuckle, Harry crawls back to him, trying not to collapse and abandon him for the sake of sleep, before sitting beside him. He raises his hand and runs it tenderly over Blaise’s torso, making the boy shiver, before exhaling a long drag of sigh.

“Do you want to come?” Harry whispers, fingers moving lower as he waits patiently, Blaise is motionless, and he makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

Harry hums happily, before surging forward taking Blaise in him, feeling piquantly warm inside his mouth, liking the salty pre cum from his cock. He adjusting himself for a better angle, before looking up with his hooded eyes to see Blaise’s lids flutter adoringly, trembling hands coming to grip Harry’s hair with the lasting strength.

It is a little disappointing that he doesn’t use that to thrust against his mouth, perhaps even choking him until the verge of unconsciousness. Harry glides his tongue over his slit, making him swear raggedly, before thrusting upward desperately, and Harry moves his head forward eagerly to challenge his gag reflects even more.

“Faster you twit!” Blaise growls, and arches quicker into Harry, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, while Harry hollows his cheeks lusciously, fingers digging sizable holes into the mattress.

His thighs begins to tremble underneath him, his abs tightening, as Blaise continues faster, hitting against the back of Harry’s throat each time, his breath becoming heavier. Every thought in Harry’s head disappears as the air thins out, feeling better than he has the entire month.

“So close, oh my –“he stammers, sounding both roughly hot and delicate, Harry feels himself smile around him, as he continues to fight keeping him in.

It isn’t a case of sucking anymore, his mouth slowly flooding with cum and savvier, Blaise groaning and he is so fit, his muscles jumping deliciously. Spluttering on the rough dick, as Blaise leak his slick cum into his mouth, Harry sucks harder at how good it tastes _._ He finally reaches the end, his impossibly swollen cock filling him, as he rocks his hips, shouting as he finally explodes. Harry swallows most of it, sucking him through the orgasm, until Blaise falls back flatly on his back listlessly.

Harry straightens up with a grin, wiping the come on his chin away and goes for Blaise’s wand to clean all the stickiness away. He falls back next to him on the bed, both breathing heavily, comfortable beside each other. All three of Harry’s holes, throbbing with soreness.

A ringing sound pierces through the silence, making them cringe as it hits mercilessly against their eardrums, growing louder and the forgotten headache returns, kicking anguish in Harry’s temples and sends waves of dizziness down to the tip of his toes. The sound stops after a click, follows by creak and a bed hitting against the wall, as Goyle grumpily falls back into a snoring sleep.

“Apologize on his behalf, he forgets to turn it off on weekends.” he trails off, still breathless.

Actually, Harry is grateful for the watch, since somehow it lurches his responsibilities awake. Prompting up on one elbows, Harry shakes his head in respond, feeling immediate dizziness, before he asks for water. He regrets that too, when the coolness of it, sends him right back underneath the covers, snuggling into Blaise’s side. With a slight chuckle, Blaise turns him around, spooning Harry from behind and the warmth of his body offers a nice comfort. One of Blaise’s broad hand come to rest on his bare waist. The other one starts to play with Harry’s damp hair, and he turns his head down, his lips grazing the mattress.

“It’s been such a shitty month.” Harry states with a deep sigh, “I just feel like giving up on education, when all the teachers are out for blood. Except Snape, he’s been…nice. Which just seals how fucking absurd everything is.”

“What did you expect?” Blaise asks, voice just as soft, “For you to say that you’d an epiphany to be enough for people?”

“They’re teachers; they’re not supposed to hold grudges against underage students.”

 He chortles, “how you love to victimize yourself.”

“I am trying to right all my wrongs,” Harry replies indignantly, “even with Granger.”

A short mirthless guffaw escapes Harry this time. That one will be harder than anything else might, since she will probably cut his balls off, and forcibly feed it to him dubbed in the slime from yesterday, if he as much as even looks her way, after dropping her like coal for Christmas present. He regret that the most, out of every stupid decision he made through last year. At least great friends came out with him on the other side, where grades and other great friends bit the dust…

“Wow,” Blaise whistles, marvelling in astonishment, “Good luck, mate.”

Harry sighs deeply, before rubbing his hands over his aching eyes. He knows he is unreasonable and to an extent, pretty wishful; no one should even imply that he thinks otherwise. The fact that he is not on his knees begging, doesn’t means he is careless.

However, had it been wrong to assume, that everything would’ve been a tad easier? That the teachers wouldn’t actively ignore his raised hand, and that he’d write all his essays safely to avoid dropping grades? That his classmates wouldn’t laugh during his presentations? Had he really been wrong in thinking, that despite some getting miffed over his declines and others trying to jinx him on his prefect duties, that he’d be treated with fairness inside the classroom? Is it too much to expect everyone not to be fucking petty?

Blaise must have caught up on the change of the mood, he curses, before grabbing his shoulder and turning him around to face him. He regards him compassionately, his dark eyes crinkling softly and his voluptuous lips form a toothless smile, and that single gesture is enough to uplift him.

“You’ve survived your first month right?” Blaise hums optimistically, “Let’s celebrate that. Tonight! Your house is hosting, and forget those idiots. You don’t have to deal with them till Monday.”

It tempting, really, but Harry declines, feeling like a tight band are wrapping his head tightly. He cannot let loose and erase his worries, while sloshing himself into oblivion. It sounds wonderful, but he really can’t, he promised to drop that habit at the end of last semester. Unfortunately, Harry needs to pick up his grades from the A’s and P’s it’s currently lazily resting on, if he doesn’t want to work for some forgettable section on the Daily Prophet, bringing coffee to the likes of Rita Skeeter. After all, his parents already told him they wouldn’t financially support his arse, if he deliberately ruins his life like this.

“What are you going to do though?” Blaise asks miffed, “Nobody’s going to clap your shoulder, for skipping a party, everyone else is going to.”

He’d expected that attitude, that is for sure. Harry begins to sit up as Blaise lights a cigarette, and reaches for his shirt.

“We drank yesterday.”

“Fridays don’t count, it’s obligatory to wash away the weekday’s dirt with vodka.”

Jerking the blanket away, Harry puts on his trousers with a short laugh. “Sorry mate, but I’d love to hear what you’d been up to later.” Harry smirks.

He proceeds to rub him condescendingly on his stomach, before parting the curtains and slipping out, vaguely catching him mutter a lovable ‘Fucktard’ after him.

It is 12 am and the rest of the school are half-way through their day, yet no light finds a way inside the room and most of them are still heavily dormant. Amused, Harry takes his shoes in one hand, and steps over Crabbe lying across the carpet unconscious, while Nott seemingly is singing in the showers. Upon closing the door, he sees through the peak of a pair of curtains, Draco curling in his sleep, chin resting on his flat palms. He mourns that he does not have a camera in his reach.

From the walk out of the Slytherins’ dungeons up to the Ravenclaw Tower, Harry runs into roughly three people that manage to tear him into bits. By the time he reaches his dorm, blood at its boiling point, Harry is ready to fight an entire army consisting of inferius.

He storms across the dorm without paying any attention to the lounging boys, and slips into the bathroom. He is fully aware over how silent the room becomes upon his entrance, since he just heard them talking outside, but not having the space to contemplate over anything, Harry begins to unbutton his wrinkly shirt, when he stops midways, eyes landing on the empty shelf. Steam is literally coming out of his ears by this moment and with an infuriated grunt; Harry steps out after being there for approximately five seconds. His hands abruptly shots up to grab the casing of the door, the sound of his palms hitting against the wood sent a jolt through some of them.

The way Michael’s face washes in guilt or how Terry puts his comic book down, is enough to convince Harry these rats had another one of their stupid little meetings. 

“Where is my stuff?” Harry hisses.

The pig nosed Kevin Entwhistle answers him, by glancing at him, like Harry is being an exceptionally insolent child. He points a haughty finger over to Harry’s drawer, which he now notices has a transparent bag with Harry’s toiletries placed on top of it. He grabs the bag, mind unable to comprehend the size of this boy’s nerve.

“What makes you think – “Harry begins to grit through his teeth, but is cut by Entwhistle, who comes up to stand in front of him.

“Look Potter, I did it and no, hear me out.” He raises his voice, as Harry begins to speak again, “We all decided that since you barely sleep here anymore, your stuff shouldn’t take up our space.”

“Maybe I would sleep here more, if you guys didn’t practically kick me out!”

“Maybe you wouldn’t be kicked out, if you didn’t stumble in heavily intoxicated every other night.” Entwhistle mocks, “Besides that was last term, it’s entirely your choice not to sleep here now. So, why don’t you stop making a fuss, and take your stuff with you to this night’s shag, eh?”

Harry never was a violent person; he only ever punched roughly two people in his life. Gabriel was the one who thought with his fists, which Harry had been on the other end of for quite a lot of times. That is enough to make anyone strongly against acting on violent urges. He prides himself in not giving into it in such testing times. Yet here he is inching forward to break the non-existing jaw of the fifth person he is interacting with this midday. Instead, Harry sighs deeply and fixes on a particularly phony beam for the straw blonde boy in front of him.

“Congrats, you’ve served yourself detention.”

Entwhistle’s mouth falls gobsmacked, which tugs Harry’s lips into a satisfied smirk. Somewhere behind them, Anthony’s disbelieving chortle fills the short silence in the room. Harry seizes the bag and the cigarettes in his drawers, and is halfway across the dorm, when Entwhistle runs after him, upon ostensibly finding his voice again, but far from recovering over what has become reality.

“You cannot do that! I am going to tell Professor Flitwick that you’re violating your powers.” He whines, trying to stop the door from closing on his face, until Harry just leaves it open.

“Long story short: I need to fix myself.” Harry says nonchalantly upon entering into Gryffindor fifth year dorm, Gabriel and his equally bewildered friends perks up alarmingly in their beds, just as he closes the door to their bathroom.

He chuckles lowly, feeling lighter at heart after his smoke, and steps underneath the pouring showers, as Seamus’ muddled voice spikes through the sound of the falling water.

“How’d he come in?”

¤¤

“I need something for my headache.” Harry states.

He goes up to the desk, where Madame Pomphrey continues to write down the medical record of her last patient. The infirmary is not Harry’s favourite place – filled with far too many horrible memories – but over the expand of the last month; he has ended up here far too many times. Madame Pomphrey seems to agree with his silent ponder, she lays down her linen quill on the eggshell painted desk – he does not know how many times he has stressed that this place is disheartening white – before she exhales.

“No.” She states.

He clasps his hands underneath his chin, “Please ma’am?”

He is sure that he spots the corner of her mouth twitch, but after a second or so it’s gone, replaced with a frown and eyes regarding him severely. He mentally prepares himself, for what is predictably on its way, and surely enough –

“Mr. Potter you are not my only student!” she says rigorously, but with some repentant flickers in her tawny brown eyes, “You’ve already had a bottle of soothing potion, enough to fill ten students! If, I don’t put my foot down, I’d end up ordering a storage for your private use, and that, my friend, is just a waste of money.”

“But if no one needs any –“

“They will as we move closer to Christmas,” she shuts him down, “I am sorry, Mr. Potter, but that’s my final words. You’ve had too many already, and giving you more will be unethical of me, since you could end up overdosing on the potion and it’ll result in some consequences, not to mention side effects and I’ll drown in even more paperwork.”

Harry nods tight-lipped, as she stands up to pack her stacks of parchments away. With a defeated sigh, Pomphrey moves over to open a drawer and hands him his file, which surprisingly is a lot lighter than he thought. According to them, he notices that she has given him a potion to dull an ache in his body roughly ten times, the marks randomly placed all over the month of September.

“There is occasions, where I weren’t hung over too.” Harry remarks grimly.

Her face falters after, what undoubtly is the recall of him being at the receiving end of some bastard that wanted him to pay. With a sombre nod, she makes a 180 turn both figuratively and literally, reaching for one of the cabinets and hands him a small, feathery light aluminium pack with around 12 pills of what he realizes, are muggle pain-killers. Her sympathy for him being assaulted only gets him these tacky make-believe pills? He might as well bite the headache in himself. Harry grimaces, when his eyes finds the appeased pair of the slender, medieval witch in white attire.

“These are not as effective.” Harry protests.

“You mean not as _instantly_ effective,” Madame Pomphrey corrects him, possibly a little too gleefully, as she shoos him toward the door without giving him a chance to speak. “Perhaps, this will be enough to teach you to take care of yourself.”

She waves him farewell, before shutting her door and leaves him outside on the empty corridor, the laughs of the students on the ground breezing faintly through the opened windows. He turns the pack of aspirin in his hands before popping one out, the pill white and tiny in his palm. Shutting his eyes, Harry quickly throws it inside his gaping mouth and swallows it. Ten seconds later and his head is still throbbing, eyes hurting at the slightest flick to the side.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “perhaps.”

¤¤

After filling his stomach, rewarding himself with another smoke and going back after his books, Harry goes to sit in the section, consisting mostly of fourth year curriculums. The problem isn’t conjuring the spells, as haughty as it might sound he can do that in his sleep, and brewing potions isn’t more arduous than clapping while blindfolded, although he weren’t there to be guided through both. He waddles through one book after another, sensing the librarian’s glare on his bend head, and grips tighter on his books at the occasional mocking laughs that passes him, of some miserable little twat that cannot mind their own businesses. The gruelling part is catching up with everything of relevance keenly skipped. It’s about consuming time on reading and memorizing knowledge that should’ve been sealed by now, and writing the essays he didn’t return – fully aware that he might lack essential discussions carried in class – instead of focusing on his O.W.L.S like everyone else in his year. Thus meaning he is juggling two years of education, and is still going to be behind his class, when he turns to his fifth year assignments, because Harry isn’t able to pay it as much attention.

So Harry sighs, he has little bursts of frustration where he scratches his scalp, and he reads, reads and even more reading. It should be easier to focus, since most of the school are either young, running outside or old enough and preparing themselves for the party. Or like Harry, a loser frantically scribbling away in some deserted corner, and unable to hold the attention on his book. Could things get any worse? He ponders bitterly, as he turns another page on his old Transfiguration book.

Madame Pince insists on opening the windows, and since they’re only on fourth floor the shenanigans happening outside puts his concentration out of commission to such a level, where he ends banging his head into the newly dried notes, ready to, literally wail in grievance.

“Keep down your noise.” Madame Pince simply orders from her table.

About the time Harry begins to collect himself again, she lets her feet fall down from the table, and carries on to stump the first page of every book loudly and unapologetically. Inwardly waving the white flag high, Harry clears everything hurriedly in his embrace and runs over to the other side of the library, cursing her under his breath as he clearly distinguishes her mocking laugh.

In midst of his forceful reading on Arithmancy, Filch shuffles into his reach of hearing, grumping and breathing heavily, speaking to his cat and occasionally pushes an entire row of books down, before screaming Gabriel’s name at the top of his lungs.

He dared to ask that things could get worse, didn’t he? Sabotaging himself that is what he does. Around the evening – despite Pince’s blatant disrespect, Filch’s rampage and the group of sixth year girls jeering at him, because apparently, he slept with Cormac Mclaggen – Harry manages to write seven rolls of parchment. Though the disruptions are far from over, just as the level of noise decreases to the atmosphere fitting for a library, the teachers starts to show up and of course, they have him in their thoughts.

“Did you notice Mr. Potter’s clean up?” Harry hears Professor Sinistra asks Vector.

A quick glance to the side reveals them through the small peaks of the bookshelf between them; they in return are completely oblivious to his presence or they’re aiming to shatter him. Either way, he wouldn’t put it pass them.

“Give him another week,” Vector says cynically, causing Harry’s intestines freezing in record time. “I don’t believe the nonsense Mrs. Potter and the others have been feeding us, the boy have started skipping classes already! I for one did not see him on Thursday.”

“I don’t know,” Sinistra drones, a little divided, “His essays are still quite enjoyable, if I have to say so myself. And I heard he was sick on Thursday, though you never know with him.”

“Yeah, he was being pumped for liquor, I bet my wand on that.” Vector mocks loftily and Sinistra displays her amusement piercingly.

 Harry’s shoulders slumps down in despair, he doesn’t even have energy to find rage in himself.

“I am telling you, Aurora, I have never been surer of a student failing their O.W.L.S., as I am of Potter.” Vector admits pompously, “I dare even say Goyle has a bigger chance.”

“It’s a shame, really,” Sinistra sighs.

They move out of his hearing range, the words getting less clear, but Harry feels too sick to care. He looks down at the three rolls of parchment on Arithmancy that he had spent the better part of the day excessively writing, suddenly overwhelmed with a strong urge to burn it all. What is the point, if the teacher of said class has already set her mind on meeting his failure…?

He shoves it all inside his bag instead, before taking out his Potion books and a set of fresh parchments, mustering up determination to finish writing about the wit-sharpening potion, pushing away the dejection for now.

¤¤

“Come in.” His throaty voice yells.

Harry opens the door and takes a quick survey around the dully-grey walls of Professor Lupin’s office, before he steps inside. He lingers by the wall, cautiously eying the aggravated creature that looks like a cross between a crab and a turtle, ruining the innocence of the latter, while Lupin finishes his conversation with the teary Fay Dunbar. She is slim and dark-haired, Harry barely ever notices Fay in her sober state, since she kind of disappears in the shadow of her more popular dorm mates such as Parvati, Lavender and well, Granger. She is pretty, though, he muses, quickly averting his gaze to the bizarre creature, now wheezing and hitting its head against the glass to attack. Or maybe the beast is really eager to be petted, you never know.

“Okay.” She repeats brittle to a concerned Lupin, before greeting Harry with a teary smile, as she passes him quickly, and instantly sets to run back down to the classroom, at last he hears the soft thud of the door closing behind her.

Harry points a thumb over his shoulder, “She’s alright?”

He shrugs, before hiding his head in his hands and releases a long sigh. “I don’t know. It’s also confidential, so.” He drags on.

The wrinkles are remarkably lined on his face, by the time he lifts his head again, just when Harry begins to wonder if he is sleeping. Their gazes connect and his eyes are disquietingly red and languid, yet somehow they’re projecting concern toward him. Something is draining him – something are draining them all, Harry corrects himself in a combination of worry and intrusiveness– and it is clearly not the two weeks away full moon, in Remus’ case.

“Harry.” Remus calls softly.

“What?” He blinks, “sir.”

“Is there anything you needed?” he inquires, in a tone that much reveals that this is a repeat.

Harry nods, before reaching down in his bag and hands him a couple of rolls. He takes it from him with a grateful smile, complimenting Harry’s work ethic, and that simple gesture sets this shitty day into a much better light. Remus had been the only one that agreed on marking his essays belatedly. The rest are only accepting out of duty to give him a chance of erasing his truancy, so the Wizarding Examination Authority will allow him to take his O.W.L.S. It have probably much more to do with them practically being family, than his hope in Harry as his teacher, but Harry is glad nonetheless. If Remus thinks he is a waste of time, then at least he has enough acuity of not letting it leave his thoughts. That is what Harry hopes, when he leaves the room a while later, after he finishes the tea, Remus insists that he drinks with him.

¤¤

Whomever spread the news of the party had lied, and Padma Patil along with some other prefects manages to spread the truth in time. It still does not stop the streams of worked up mobs to run into the unsuspecting Ravenclaws in the common room, as soon as the gargoyle’s riddle are solved far after sunset.

Some scatters to their dorms and the most opposing gets wiped away, as Lee Jordan fights his way through to set up his radio, the speakers instantly bewitched to shake the walls. A chorus of cheers breaks out, as the familiar guitar riff of the Hobgoblins fills the room. The substances comes in from all sides, tables being set up to serve the liquor and at the farthest corner, Wayne Hopkins is already snogging Lisa Turpin up the wall. In the matter of seconds the common room are turned into a night club and the entire floor is surging, the beat banging on people’s eardrums and Ron has a tube down his throat, swallowing an entire tank of beer upside down in record time, as Dean bangs on his back in encouragement.

Gabriel accepts the cups of fire whiskey from George, who just proudly declares that he planned this; before walking over to Neville, with Hermione standing by attentively listening to Susan.

Somewhere near the windows, Hannah falls off the stool as her and Luna tries to hang up the banner that congratulates everyone present on finishing the first month. He quickly averts his gaze, when she starts kissing Slytherin’s seventh year Yatin Bhagat, whose lap she lands on, while Neville’s face instantly scrunches sourly. They will both regret it in the morning, Gabriel thinks, clapping Neville on the shoulder, and hands Hermione the other goblet. Leaning forward, he tries to distinguish Susan’s even levelled voice over the rambunctious commotion.

“I feel like Scrimgeour doesn’t have a single grasp over the situation,” Susan says indignantly, and of course, they are discussing the ministry. “The entire article was plainly fending off the questions; you’d expect more of the head of the Auror office.”

“I know,” Hermione, sighs disappointed, turning the cup in her hand, “It was basic media training techniques, he didn’t even bother to be a little more discreet.”

He finds himself zoning out, eyes following the way Roger Davis’ hands are groping over the thin dress covering Cho’s hips. She throws her head back, cheeks dimpling as she looks coyly at him and the grip on Gabriel’s cup tightens harshly, the rim crushing in on itself. Sneaking out the tip of his wand with the other hand, Gabriel aims at Davis’ mouth, currently sucking on Cho’s earlobe, before he deliriously mutters. “ _Slugulus Eructo._ ”

A piercing scream tears from Cho’s throat, and she hastily creates space between them, ghastly climbing onto the windowsill and frantically combes out the slugs tangled in her hair, as Davis kneels down to disorderly hurl even more slimy slugs out, encircled by heavily amused fourth year boys. He swigs the rest down before throwing it away, enjoying the aggressive burn down his throat, while Hermione spares him a disapproving glance. He really should stop being hung up on her, when she was the one to break up with him over silly reasons, but he couldn’t resist that. Besides, Davis is a prick. Gabriel turns his gaze to Neville and Susan, who laughs heartily at Justin Finch-Fletchley dancing like hot coals where placed in his pants. People surrounds him on the dance floor, clapping along off beat with the rhythm of the song in the radio.  

“What news?” Gabriel asks loudly.

“The evening papers,” Susan tells him sombrely, as it turns out someone indeed jinxed Justin’s pants, “the Aurors’ returning date are finally confirmed.”

A tight squeeze goes through his stomach, and his eyes seeks out Hermione who nods in agreement. Then it is true, he thinks suddenly in need to grip onto something. His father was sent away an entire week before the summer ended, which now makes it roughly five weeks with no letters or pictures from him, only an occasional line in his mother’s letters saying that he is fine and misses them. He will return though and all of this will be nothing but something to laugh at, while they’re all gathered in their living room, safely in their mansion.

“It’s not before New Year though.” She adds.

His entire world crushes into itself. He feels like throwing up.

Neville grips his elbow, as he sags back against the wall in despair, suddenly drained of all energy and the worry ripping inside him in unnervingly. Three months of waiting that makes the chances of his father dying bigger by the minute. Three months of not knowing why the fuck he is sent away in the first place, three months of guessing and trying to crack off handed comments in every fifth morning newspaper, since the most respected newsletter also is the most controlled. Not to mention, that his father won’t even be there for Christmas!

“You don’t have to stay, if you aren’t feeling well.” Hermione’s voice breaks through his thoughts.

He takes a deep inhale, before slipping away, feeling her concern linger on him. He moves over to the exit with slumped shoulder and worry still rapidly eating him on the inside, ignoring the calls for his names and the couple of staggering drunk lads that grips him to slur something or another. He passes a group surrounding Ginny and Lucy, who are taking ten rows of shots. Gabriel admires momentarily the way she seems unaffected, as she springs up on her legs with fists punching the air in victory, as Lucy lays down on the ground dizzily. Everyone else around him is absorbed in blissful ignorance and joy.

A brash laugh to his right snatches his attention and directs his worry elsewhere, this time reeking with exasperation. Rightly, so, a couple of feet away he spots Harry released by the levicorpus, and he proceeds to pull the beer tube out of his mouth, his body radiating triumph and beaming, deafening cheers erupting for him, when an older bloke comes to drag him away. A head of groomed curls covers his vision then, and Gabriel bites the bile of irritation in him, and musters a smile for Lavender, who is twirling a honey blonde strand in her fingers. The dim light in the room makes it difficult to distinguish much between his dancing peers, and he moves them both a little in his foreboding search for Harry.

“I saw you practising the other day with Ron and the others,” she says, blood red lips stretching over her white teeth, “And I just wanted to congratulate you on the Finbourgh flick, it was really excellent for someone, who isn’t a chaser.”

He takes a moment from his searching for Harry, to snort at her words. It is sort of cute that she is acting like an expert, a quick glimpse of Harry pressing against the guy deprives the momentary mirth. He gives out an agreeing sound, as he shoves Dennis Creevey away. Lavender follows him, apparently not sensing that he is more than a little busy.

They’re slipping away from him, with Harry leaning onto the tall boy, who has a hand firmly around his shoulders, his angular face not even looking at Harry but at someone else, whom Gabriel cannot see. He stops up brashly, his hands raising in growing incense when the student body between him and Harry becomes impossible to pass, when the beat drops.

“Anyways, I just wanted to tell you that.” Lavender grumps from his side, before turning around and he rolls his eyes, before replying.

“Thank you!” he responds loudly, dropping his hands, when she twirls around beaming. “I had originally planned on becoming a chaser, since my dad trained me to be one and they do the more than seekers, but it was the only free post and I am not complaining.”

“It was really fascinating though,” Lavender admits bashfully, “And you must really be strong for you to practically hang off your broom like that. I can barely do one push up.”

He laughs, which comes as a surprise, and is about to answer, before catching Harry and the nameless boy, who looks like he’s blonde in the sharper light, much closer than before. They’re not close enough for an unexpected PDA, instead they’re conserving, which isn’t much better and Gabriel’s heart picks up its pace against his ribcage, loudly throbbing in his ears. Swallowing, with his eyes still carefully following their every motion, he turns himself to Lavender.

“Hey Lav, do you know that guy.”

She follows the direction of his pointed finger, her brows gradually knitting in concentration, and he can practically see the wheels turning in her head, as she drinks in everything about him.

“Yeah, he’s a sixth year and his name is Jeremy Stretton.” Lavender informs, before giving out an uneasy snickers.

That little sound sends his stomach churning unpleasantly.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

She shrugs tensely, both of them turning their gaze back to the two. Harry whispers goofily into this Stretton fellow’s ear, before he nods and fixes something out of his pocket, and in turn does Gabriel’s hands get discomfortingly clammy.

“He’s one of Cross’ mates.”

His eyes are bulging out in horror, inches from falling out of it’s sockets, when as soon as the words leaves her mouth a gasp follows and they witness in repulse, as Stretton rains coloured pills onto his palm, which Harry happily throws into his mouth.

“Excuse me,” Gabriel mutters with barely concealed anger, as he fights through the hoard of girls blocking his way, damned be the wish for his bed and perhaps a mug of chocolate and his comics, drowning every horrible scenario away. Instead, he rushes forward to fling Harry away, and drags his overwhelmed twin back over to George’s table – which is more _sensible_ than beating the unapologetically grinning git in his own house, though he isn’t letting this one slide.

“Anything to quench your thirsts?” he asks, twirling the wand in his hand like a stiff lasso.

“No, Harry.” He sighs miserably; sitting his unsteady twin down under the rows of liquor bottles and kneels beside him to tear the plaid shirt off his heated body.

It is all that’s needed. George sobers up into a rare state of solemnity, and he fixes up a goblet of water in which he adds two drops of Antidote to Uncommon Potions into, which they recently figured out also works on muggle drugs. Meanwhile Gabriel stuns him, when Harry keeps struggling beneath him, and George proceeds to wash the water down his throat. George removes the empty goblet from his lips, and relieved, Gabriel plants a hand to rest on Harry’s pale, clammy cheek and watches the life return in him. This is much more common than he’d would like.

“I thought you were supposed to catch up to your classes.” Gabriel whispers, after a while.

Motions a lot slower, Harry fumingly pushes their cautious arms away and pulls himself up, a drag of sigh escaping him, as he closes his eyes against the drain that has hit him.

“I did.” He replies throatily.

“Then?”

“Until –“ he pauses, his face sickly pale in the hue of the lit torches, while Gabriel dishearteningly watches the weight on him, though it is all clear from his voice when he ends. “– I didn’t.”

He does not say anything after that, which is also very common and starts to drum his fingers on the table, jaw determinedly clenched. The world would be a much better place, if Harry just drops these habits, Gabriel grunts mentally, rising from the ground. George’s blue eyes are mainly swimming with distress by the time they tear from Harry’s face and catches his gaze. A grim smile forms on Gabriel’s lips, and his hand leaves Harry’s cheek, as he moves to the front of the table.

“Thank you.” Gabriel whispers, somehow George hears him over the roars from people safely intoxicated into their happy places, but he nods, putting the antidote away for others or Harry’s second round, perhaps. They started stealing it for mainly him, after all.

“’S nothing mate,” George assures, “I could look out for him you know, I am not leaving this table, anyways. Maybe, even let him sell with me and everything.”

“Thank you, but –“he turns around to look at Harry, only to come to a halt over the arid sight.

George leans over the table and his face falters too, when they see the empty spot moments before obtaining the sweat drenched raven, who has now wandered off unnoticed and in his leave did not even take his shirt with him. A ballad swoons conveniently over the common room and Gabriel turns around to face the hazy, dark room, unable to find Harry with the naked eye; he is too tired to find him all together, really. Throwing a farewell over his shoulder, Gabriel leaves and by the table close to where Harry was, a bottle of Fire whiskey is missing.


	4. A fine line between annoyance and amusement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marlowe continues to be a pain, old grudges continue to thrive, Mira continues to struggle with school

The classroom’s walls are dripping with cold sweat of water, and upon exhaling you can even see your breath thick and white swirling in front of the nose tip. The two third year classes are huddling in the benches, trembling in the unnecessarily cold classroom in the dungeons. Professor Snape is seemingly turning a blind eye to the cold – Mira knows he is ignoring them, Snape is highly observant, she knows that from experience – he is walking down the rows, with a yellow, crocket finger in the air as his monotone voice fills the room again.

“A wizard prince once used the Wiggenweld potion to awaken his princess, who had been dosed with the Draught of Living Death by a brilliant potioneer named Leticia Somnolens. In order to awaken her, the prince put this potion on his lips, before gracing the sleeping princess with a kiss.” He says, evidently forcing the civility in his tone.

He pauses dramatically by the back rows and thus forces them to turn around in their seats, wrapped tightly in their robes, and meets his silence. He surveys his cold, black eyes over them, one after another, granting each exactly five eerie seconds of his attention. Somewhere a splutter erupts, and Romilda leans into the shell of Mira’s ear.

“So that’s basically how the prince woke the sleeping beauty,” she mutters in a poor imitation of Snape’s drawl, and Mira bites back her laughter, while Snape goes on to continue his lesson or fairy tale. Depends how you take it, altogether it sounds ridiculous coming out of Snape’s mouth, but the wizards on the school boards have determined, that they should learn background stories.

“Now, the potion has since been developed frequently over the years, and almost all of you have consumed it, since it is so commonly used that it should be in your parents’ cabinets.” Snape tells them, reaching the front, all their eyes glued to his every move. He raises his hand again, standing near the blackboard and asks, “Can someone tell me, what the Wiggenweld potion are used for today? Miss. Vane.”

Romilda’s already ample eyes becomes wider, as she shrinks on her seat beside Mira, her face growing a couple shades darker under all the attention. Nothing ever goes by unnoticed in his classroom, and now Romilda has to pay for daring to speak. They’re not allowed to open their books, before the brewing, so she can’t even look down to safe face. 

Mira watches Romilda helplessly, as the Gryffindor struggles to form an eligible sentence under Snape’s intense gaze. 

“It’s used for, um, waking someone?” Romilda whispers and Snape leans forward cupping his ear, causing Romilda to repeat, her voice louder, but sadly weaker. 

“Five points from Gryffindor for such a vague explanation,” Snape protracts, “Is there anyone who can provide us all with something somewhat decent. Yes, miss. Marlowe?”

Marlowe straightens her back, beside an animatedly encouraging Astoria, before saying with an unfaltering smile; “The Wiggenweld potion has the powers to awaken someone, who is in a magically induced sleep, professor. Healers commonly use this potion to awaken patients after they have sedated them. It’s also simple enough to be allowed into the average home, sir.”

“Correct. Ten points to Slytherin.” He announces, before flicking his wrist and the chalk engraves 19 instructions onto the blackboards, causing the students to begin setting up their cauldrons and supplies alike. 

Marlowe has turned out to be quite the show off, insanely intelligent and leaving a pleasant impression on every teacher in the classes, they share. Mira still has Ancient runes and Care of Magical Creatures though, since the higher power have directed the wrecking blonde over to Muggle Studies and Divination. She is stupid for taking classes that are such a waste of time, though just because Mira is let off the hook does not mean no one else is suffering. The latter is Paige’s golden subject and the former is Nina’s favourite, and they use the little time Marlowe is not around to rage over that fact. Then there is Astoria, currently laughing with Marlowe as they brew together, new besties and everything. Mira had thought it was only a matter of time before she dropped her, but Mira seems to have been wrong. Not a single bad thing about Marlowe escapes her mouth, even when Danessa had approached her at every angle – and this girl’s mouth is like a waterfall when it comes to everyone, even her own sister! 

Now all of this would have been somewhat bearable, if Marlowe will just quit comparing every aspect of this fucking school to Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. 

Romilda comes back with most of the ingredients in her embrace, as Mira drops the pint of Horklump juice and Flobberworm mucus into the potion, and on clockwork Marlowe’s voice reaches them clearly, despite all the noise and chatter and the fact that Mira is near the back.

“This is such a cute way to brew,” Marlowe tells Astoria, they are already adding the salamander blood to turn the colour. “In Beauxbatons we used to brew in these rooms without a roof, and in the end we’d take all the successful potions and storage it for actual use.”

“That must have been something of an honour.” Astoria notes.

Marlowe simply gives a dismissive wave, “Certainly, however when your potions are always included, because of your excellence in that subject, it stops serving you self-esteem, and supplement to your fellow students that are sick in the infirmary.”

“Like charity.”

“You could say that.”

Mira rolls her eyes, her hand pressing harder on the carton containing the Boom berry juice and of course, they brew it on the rooftop in well light rooms with the sun beaming at them, helping the unfortunate souls, feeling blessed and shit. Fuck, they probably never froze up there enough to eagerly await the warmth of these horrid smelling potions every time. She is momentarily interrupted by Sandon Longbottom, who leans in over the table behind them, his dessert blonde hair drenched and Gryffindor tie wrinkled. 

Not to mention they all have to bath after this class.

“Which part of this is cute?” Sandon asks, his freckles raining on his mock-confused face. 

Mira shakes her head, amusedly, and both he and Romilda break out in short laughs, the latter while stirring their potion until it incorrectly turns into the colour of cider. Mira looks down to sigh at it, while Dennis Creevey joins their mockery of Marlowe. The boys’ is worse off though, Mira consoles herself, their potion sits between them holding the colour of chocolate brown. 

“Are we aiming after a warm colour like honey, or orange like, well orange?” Astoria’s ask aloud in befuddlement, while Marlowe lays her hands around the cauldron, like it’s an inflated stomach, her thin eyebrows knitting. 

“Orange like orange.” Sandon scoffs.

“Do you want detention?” Romilda inquires lowly. 

He leans back into his seat, shrugging carelessly, but they both fall silent, when Snape moves over to their potion, from where he was scolding a poor Gryffindor boy. He hovers over it for a while, his sour and chiselled features just as unreadable as always– except these occasions where he is looking at a Potter – until a sound from Marlowe makes him jerk up alerted. He glares at the bouncing girl, who moves in her seat like she got worms stuck up in her. Reaching forward, the whole class’ eyes on her, Marlowe adds another lionfish spine in the potion, before turning the heat on and watches the swimming liquid gradually turn into a rich yellow colour.

“Yellow like pineapples, then.” Astoria concludes, turning around with a smirk and catches Sandon’s baffled azure glance. While it is completely in character of Astoria to be smug in these situations, and it makes Mira smile at the familiarity, Marlowe uses the time to further impress Snape. 

“I saw how it needed a little push, since it seemed cool against my palm. And then I noticed that Astoria had forgotten the last lionfish spine and we really can’t have it half done, now, right sir?” Marlowe chirps to Professor Snape.

Romilda loses her jaw, and they stare with incredulousness at how effortlessly she pushed Astoria under the Knight bus, in her motion to reach higher up his arse. Astoria falls back against the bench, the smile reeling off her face and Snape straightens up. 

“Excellent save, five points to Slytherin.” He turns around sharply, “The rest of you can learn a thing or two from miss. Marlowe, who is putting her mind to use, instead of idly following the instructions like mediocre, witless sheep.”

The rest of the class continues in a noticeable change of the atmosphere, and by the time the class closes into an end, Marlowe and Astoria presents the best potion, which the former takes a portion from, sending it to her father in France. Sandon and Dennis gets a detention for their white potion, while Danessa and Elizabeth Morrison from Gryffindor gets second best. Mira and Romilda’s potion turns out to be lime green, which Snape looks at crossed between overwhelmed and disgust, before shaking his head and moving on quickly. 

So, really, it turns out to be pretty good. 

¤¤

“You never know, my daddy’s opinions is very important.” Meredith argues, after coming in through the entrance at last.

The common room greets them, tinging in green light and the thick curtains reaching the floor, covering the windows to the black lake. Warmth seeps into the very midst in Mira’s bones and she returns the waves from Harry and Blaise, who are huddling in the leather couches. She takes a seat beside Danessa on the velvet furniture, and the girls lounges themselves by the warm fireplace, right under the portrait of a smug Salazar Slytherin. 

“Sweets?” Paige offers, holding up one of the bowls containing Honey Dukes free samples, which someone apparently took in great numbers. Astoria happily takes a couple, while Marlowe continues her tiring argument to change their opinion, with a bunch in each grip.

“My daddy is a potion master. He does his work from our home, brewing them in his lab and sells it to pharmacies and schools’ infirmaries. Perhaps, he’ll use my Wiggenweld potion.” Marlowe tells them, and Danessa doesn’t even try to hide it, when she rolls her eyes. 

“My mum‘s a potion master too.” Mira tells her, a little taken aback by her information. Mira wishes her mother had stuck to it, since she was more present in mind then, than she is now being an active member of the Wizengamot. Marlowe just scoffs at her from the opposite couch.

“My daddy is promoted by the minister of France to be his personal brewer this year. Which is why I am here.” Marlowe says, voice a little grating. 

She did not have to turn this conversation into a pissing contest between their parents, Mira merely mentioned the coincidence of them carrying such titles. Now she that started though, Mira is not going to hold back on cascading her fluid.

“My mother became a potion master at the age of 23.” She boasts, “Did I mention she was a mother of two traumatized toddlers and an infant? She was Madame Pomphrey’s apprentice and after Hogwarts she brew potions for St Mungo during the war and got her certificate the same time as Snape. Both youngest male and female potion masters of Britain in this century.”

That shuts Marlowe up and all Mira needs is Danessa capturing this fine moment. Instead, she just leans back against the forest green cushions with a smirk, as Nina covers her smile bemusedly. More students comes in through the hidden entrance on the wall, and the girls soon fall into a comfortable, yet entirely meaningless chatter.

“You guys heard more from Lucy Addams?” Danessa asks flicking her nails, “I heard Crabbe is free and desperate if she wants some.”

“Lucy doesn’t need Crabbe,” Nina defends.

“Feisty much?”

“I heard she has Terry Boot’s attention.” 

Danessa sits up abruptly, eyes widening in disbelief, before a spoiling grin comes to rest on Nina’s lips. Danessa growls at her, and really, they love to rile each other up the wall; Mira watches them lazily, as Danessa pounces on Nina for daring to lie about such important matters. Maybe it’s because of Allison being her sister by anything, but blood, but Mira can’t understand how you can put handsome and Terry Boot in the same sentence, without wanting to take a cold shower. Her gaze settles on to Astoria, who has been a little on the silent end, she is sitting next to Paige, neon acid pop loosely held in one hand, while the other props on the armchair and holds the side of her head. Her chestnut hair hanging in strands around her small, heart shaped face, starring forward and deep in thought. Not to place her in a box or anything, but Astoria barely ever stares cannily, when she can talk. 

Mira’s breathe hitches, when she hears the smug drawl of familiarity. 

“Detach lads.” Malfoy smirks at Harry and Blaise, who glares back at him, from where they’re huddling in the couch down at the centre of the common room. 

Malfoy is hovering over them, grown several inches and bathes in the hue of green lights the room provides. He is lean; hair cut short and surprisingly clean of gel with his dark signature robes draping over his shoulders. Mira hopes he won’t notice them, while Astoria’s smile widens and eyes perfidiously darkening. He is back, from wherever he was hiding the past month – she knows he was there, since she heard chatter about him – he strolls around the common room, hitting some youngers across the head, and joking with some older, downright avoiding Leslie Flint and for every step he comes closer to them. 

He bows his head scarcely, when he reaches them and Danessa offers a curt nod, while Astoria predictably shots up a hand to wave, and Marlowe too. Mira throws her a weary look, before turning back to Malfoy, who meets every greet politely, before his eyes settle on her and the corner of his thin mouth turns downward. 

“Girls,” he says silvery, “It’s such a fine evening don’t you agree?” 

Smiling, he takes Nina under the arm graciously, before pulling her up to her feet and everything falls into their place in space, when he flops down on her seat. Whatever she furiously tries to say stops in her throat, as Malfoy puffs out his chest and the green badge flashes before them, with a deep chuckle Malfoy leans back again, like he is the serpent king of the dungeons. According to the wrinkled raisin between his ears, he definitely thinks so.

He titles his head mutely toward Marlowe, resulting in her shooting up and uttering an ego stroking praise, that makes Mira wish she had something in her stomach, just to illustrate her irk. Malfoy drags one leg up, resting the ankle atop of the others knee and reaches forward for the sweet bowl, brow arched at Danessa, who sends him an abhorred glare, before she takes Mira’s hand and they leave the opposite couch. Astoria and Paige stands up too. Of course, had he pulled this shit last year, they wouldn’t have listened, only laughed at his unoriginal threats. In the light of his new position, it is best not to try him though, and that infuriates her. 

“Thank you, for knowing a hint when it slaps you in the face.” Malfoy drawls sardonically, and he motions his hand. His friends comes out of the blue to replace their seats. Crabbe and Goyle have no qualms of decency, so naturally they do not wait until Mira and her friends get out of the way, and Nott lacks respect too as he slaps Nina’s butt in the passing, who spins around discernibly and would’ve knocked his teeth out, if not for Astoria quickly pulling her along. 

“What a moron.” Danessa mutters, leading them over to their dormitory, when Malfoy yells.

“Oi Potter,” he calls, and Mira turns halfway around, “Five points from Slytherin for being slow.”

A chorus of boos follows her through the path across the room and up the stairs, with Harry’s protest dying in the howls. She knows better than replying, and as soon as she enters their dormitory, Mira throws herself on the bed and screams the anger out, wasting the energy she could’ve used to beat the fucking rat, with half-hearted claps on the back from Danessa. 

“He is such a git. That Nott fellow,” Nina growls, running a disgusted hand over her lap as she sits down on Astoria’s bed, “Of course he has to restore to groping, since his beady eyed, filthy muggle like looks can’t get him anything.”

“Not to mention his receding hairline.” Danessa adds, sweeping a hand over her own scalp, which makes Nina snort surly. 

“Yeah, well, Malfoy looks like a rat.” Mira says.

“No he doesn’t.” Astoria argues indignantly, “You can’t blame him for still being angry.”

“A half year later?” Mira grunts.

Both Astoria and Nina raises their eyebrows at her, as if to force her to take back the seriousness behind her words. She just rolls her eyes at them, not regretting it one bit or swaying under their gazes, not even when Danessa joins them. It is not ridiculous to criticize him for holding a grudge like that, when they used to be friends! And really good ones at that, he made Slytherin as comfortable for her as it was possible during her first year, or as comfortable as one could be when half the house were convinced this was a ministry operation and Mira was the Aurors’ spy set to collect information about some of their parents. Then there was that degrading moment she went through, when Parkinson spread rumours about how Mira had drunk herself smashed and everything spiralled down from there. He had been there and helped stop the rumours; while she made sure it never reached her parents. Though she is certain, he started out with helping Harry’s sister out, they became friends along the way, true friends, and he was even her first kiss! It had been a ‘seven minutes in heaven’ dare and really did not count as a first kiss, but nonetheless, he took it to a completely new level. Although, the latter excuse was mostly fed to Astoria, in order to maintain their friendship back then, since she had a serious crush on him until last year. 

As far as Mira is concerned, she still has, going by the way she just defended the rat. 

“What does he have against you?” Marlowe asks, bringing the attention back to herself. It must not stray from her in more than two seconds, after all. 

Mira does not plan on answering her, while the others dwell in hesitation, and Marlowe’s shoulders slumps down as the silence stretches on. She looks at Paige, who shrugs helplessly, before propping her legs under her. 

“I am sorry,” she chirps up again, “I had no idea the situation was that bad.”

She is really milking for it, Mira remarks silently, and Danessa lets out a chuckle before she answers Marlowe, as she starts to open her mouth for a third time. 

“She blackmailed his father.” She is half way through, before having to duck Mira’s hand. Danessa grabs the second one mid-air, falling on her back under the force of its jerking, and Mira props up to her knees to slip a slap in on her stupidly laughing face. 

“She did?” Marlowe gasps.

“Yeah,” Nina nods sombrely, “right after she poisoned his mother.”

“Knock it off,” Astoria chides, before turning to Marlowe, who is eying the cackling Nina with exasperation. “They’re both at Mira’s house for some ministry dinner party last Christmas holidays, while Mira’s family tried to figure out why some of them didn’t think Mrs. Potter was fit to be in the Wizengamot. My father said ‘yes’ as soon as he heard it though.” She pauses to smile at Mira, who returns it, before continuing, “But a significant percentage didn’t want a muggleborn, so they planned beforehand to vote no. Mira wanted Mr. Malfoy convinced so she asked Draco to talk to him, but he refused, because he saw it as fruitless. Mira then threatened with blackmailing his father and then he complied and now he hates her.”

And as expected – 

“You threatened with blackmailing him?” Marlowe voices incredulous, “Are you completely mental? What made you think of such a crude thing?”

A couple of snorts goes around the circle, and Mira’s flinching glare doesn’t move from Marlowe’s outraged face. It was more than seven fucking months ago, and she is sitting there scolding her like she owns her. They are not even friends, for Merlin’s sake. Astoria’s time in dwelling seems to be over, as Marlowe and Astoria bond over how unethical it was of Mira. Mira simply spares them a glare every now and then; funnily enough, Astoria forgets that Marlowe threw her out to the dogs a mere hour ago. 

¤¤

When Professor McGonagall first announced the essay on Animagus, Mira had thought it to be fairly easy for her. Having three people in her life turning into animals – including McGonagall – Mira was surely going to receive her very first O. Days later and her mind deprives of everything worthy for the Transfiguration vs. Transfiguration Transformation part, first now does she acknowledge that she may have overly underestimated this. Mira is sitting in the main study area with the prefects walking around, either throwing insolent disturbers out or helping with homework. It is a generally loud place, yet she has to stay, since Mira is the only one actually obligated to be tutored. Technically, only by Hermione, but nevertheless this arrangement has been going on, since she almost lost her mind during the beginning of her W.O.M.B.A.T. exams. Hermione is a prefect though, so she no longer has to limit herself for Mirabelle, and currently she is bending in front of a stupidly grinning Ravenclaw boy, who is asking her to explain what a pincushion is used for. 

The stress begins to itch inside her in all the unreachable places and she starts to frantically braid her hair, while starring hard at her Transfiguration book, trying to remember what kind of plant one has to keep in their mouth for a month. 

The light is suddenly blocked from her and she looks up with annoyance shooting out of her eyes, only to see Danessa towering over her with a cheeky smile. Mira feels all the smartly progressed words slip out of her mind, which is a fine tell-tale that this essay is going to be crap. Danessa twirls a slim braid in her fingers and Mira leans back to allow her to talk about the positively stupid idea she came up with. This could be interesting too, less depend on her grades, but interesting overall. Danessa pops up on the table, dangling her legs and palms flat on the table, as she leans forward until they’re inches apart. 

“I’ve decided, I want to lose my virginity too,” Danessa admits, “It can’t be that difficult, and Lucy Addams seems happier now she lost it, right?”

Putting aside how bizarre it was for Addams to announce it shamelessly, she did seem happier and more popular, since a hoard of girls surrounds her in all breaks, while Addams tells them about what Hufflepuffs’ Wayne Hopkins did to her. Even Ginevra might have taken a page out of Addams’ book, since she is exclusively dating Michael Corner – who is a lot better looking than Hopkins. Though, the rumours of how they got their claws into them aren’t very flattering, even if Mira is inclined to agree, which other way could a fourth year make a fifth year look back other than spreading their legs? There have not been Hogsmeade trips, so that one is crossed over and there is always a small, lousy party somewhere in the castle. 

“I don’t know, won’t that kind of make you slutty?” Mira asks hesitantly.

Danessa scoffs, leaning back, she looks across the area full of people occupied by books and each other, before shaking her head slowly. Mira disagrees strongly; it will definitely make her a slut. “Addams is going on a date with a sixth year, now,” Danessa tells her confidentially, “Which really is worth being called a slut for, especially if it’s by some prudish future cat ladies, also known as Mirabelle Potter.” Mira scowls at her, and she mockingly returns it. “In less than a few hours Addams is going out with Bole – a slytherin too!”

“Isn’t he the boyfriend of Fay Dunbar?” Mira asks, and Danessa shrugs, before leaning in to carry the conversation. 

A strict clearing of a throat sets a jolt in them though, and they look up startled, like deer caught in the headlight. Hermione crosses her arms over her chest, her bushy brown hair standing like an intimidating mane around her and the scarlet badge gleaming threateningly from her chest. 

“You should go back to your seat, Miss Shafiq.” Hermione dictates.

Her steely gaze set on Danessa, who instantly hops off and goes back to Astoria and Gryffindor’s Elizabeth Morrison a couple of desks away, whom apparently have Ron in stitches. Another one of these things Mira has to suffer with, being obligatory tutored means Mira shouldn’t be doing anything else than assignments in these hours, and that requires being alone. 

Mira looks down and takes her quill back in hand, faking her concentration on this impossible essay, until Hermione leaves to help the next student, who is stuck in a dark hole or wants a peak of her cleavage like that Ravenclaw boy. Only Hermione doesn’t leave, instead, she sighs deeply and takes a seat beside her. Mira finally looks up to meet the disappointed eyes of Hermione that tug on Mira’s conscious and makes her question the worth in everything she got out of wronging people. 

“I wish you’d stop judging girls,” Hermione begins, “Lucy is consent aged, therefore it’s her choice, and you aren’t in any place to make such comments.”

“Alright but what does that have to do with Transfiguration?”

She spares her a disapproving glance.

“Fine! Let’s discuss my unreasonably judgemental mind,” she agrees, pushing her papers aside, “are you saying if I let’s say shag Smith over there, it’ll be my choice and I won’t be whore for it whatsoever, or that I’ll be a whore, but others aren’t allowed to say it aloud.” 

Hermione, despite urgently fighting against it, still cracks a smile. “Firstly, you’re not old – “

“That’s judging.”

“We still have to follow the rules,” Hermione shots down, “Secondly; technically a whore gets paid to be shagged. Therefore, no matter how many you do, you will not be a whore.”  
“Are whores allowed to be called whore?”

“Sex workers shouldn’t be shamed for their work. And all of this wouldn’t matter, because you can do a lot better than Smith.”

Mira stop to smile, her cheeks tinging with a faint blush of pink at Hermione’s praise. They both wipe their heads over to where the strawberry haired boy is sitting with Corner and Goldstein, furiously scratching his head over what looks like Potions. He seems like a regularly stupid boy, with his mid part bowl cut and dirty trainers. Unbeknownst to many though, he had a brief something with Hermione at some party over Easter in Mira’s first year, where he only showed her interest because of her red lipstick and dress – you know, girl muggle magic – and she had Harry act like he was poisoned from alcohol, so she could escape from his clingy company. Mira had shot milk out of her nose thrills, when she first heard it – first and last time for that vexatious experience. This trip down memory lane makes her wonder though, as her eyes fall on Padma praising an eager first year.

“Where is Harry?”

All humour and lightness deprives of Hermione’s face and perhaps even the air gets chillier, as she draws back with an unreadable expression. Hermione doesn’t answer and the smile slacks off Mira’s face too, since she just managed to ruin the mood. Excellent, well she repeats anyways.

“Who?” Hermione asks with indifference, eyes dropping to examine the parchments on the side. 

Funny, Mira wonders shortly, what they would have done to her if she had asked professor Trelawney about the future of their friendship two years ago.  
Probably a cross between strangling her and mocking her. 

“Harry.” She says more forcefully.

“I suppose getting used to his future, passed out from drinking, sleeping by some wall.”

Mira’s brows disappears into her hairline, but she does not tell her off from that harsh comment, since in that moment the chatter in her hearing range shifts into dubious whispers and shrill snorts that isn’t caused by the books in front of them. Mira turns in her seat to witness, Harry coming through the doors, a blank sheet over his face and nonchalant to the points and stares. 

However awkward that is.

Perhaps, Hermione should regard homeless shaming like she sees sex shaming, not that Harry would ever end like that, he’ll sleep on Mira’s couch. Standing by their table, Harry suddenly becomes conscious over his dishevelled state and hurries to redo his tie, while Hermione glances coolly from the thin layer of sweat on his face to the dust harpooning his knees. 

“I apologize for being late,” Harry says gravelly, “I had lost track of time and I hope the children weren’t much too unwilling without me.”

“We’re nearly done,” Hermione says orotund, as she stands up and although she is several inches shorter, he looks far too small in her presence. “And believe me; we do not need your help.”

“Okay,” Harry replies uncertainly, “I’ll just go over and, um, support then.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at him, cutting into cat like snits, her vast nose scrunching up as she regards him with sweet venom, like poisoned red apples really, and it is very fascinating for Mira, although she should be defending Harry, being her brother and all. 

“You have,” she pauses shortly, “salvia all over your neck.”

She leaves with an air of smug derision, as Harry’s hand shoots up to wipe his neck and Mira conceals her amusement. She ponders whether it is okay to shame blokes, considering Harry is a bit of a slut. He takes a seat, his face scurrying over to a dark red colour quite like garnet, or the lipstick smudged on his collar, as he takes her parchment as a distraction element.

“How is your grand plan of redemption going?” Mira asks teasingly.

“I am working on it.” He replies crassly. 

“She treats you as testily as always, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

She refrains from asking if her mood rubbing off on him is a part of his grand plan, instead she leaves him in peace, as he reads her essay.

“Mandrake leaf.” He mutters shortly after.

She puts the quill out of her mouth. “What?” she inquires. 

“A part of the process to become an animagus,” he says patiently, pointing at her essay. “Requires that you have a mandrake leaf in your mouth for a month. So write mandrake leaf here.”

“It’s not in the book.”

“Well, the book isn’t going to list the whole process. I’d imagine they don’t want more unregistered animaguses on the school ground.” He smirks, “Luckily, we know a little more than the average wizard.”

She thanks him a little absently, quickly dipping the quill down in her inkbottle and writes it down, continuing for couple of lines more, since the words starts flooding back into her mind. Mira loves it when he helps her, as she is sure it reminds him about his own intelligence, which he really needs in these trying times, where grades could easily be viewed at as a person’s worth, she would know how that can take its tool. Looking up, she beams at him and he gives a tired smile back.

“See,” she chirps, grabbing his arm, “your help is needed.”

“Thank you, Mi. But I really should’ve come earlier, since you’re just finishing up.”

She looks confusedly down at her half-done essay, before it dawns on her that he really must have taken Hermione’s words to heart. Well, it is sad, not as sad as it is funny though, Mira thinks biting back a laugh. Reaching out to pinch his cheek, she lets her hand drop down to write the good lines that dawns on her.

“Why didn’t you, though?” she inquires causally, keeping her sight on the words she is scribbling down, the corners of her mouth twitching upward.

Predictably, silence is all that meets her.


End file.
